The world runs on stories. Almost all stories are about a journey of some kind, either personal, or physical, or emotional. The path we take from A to B to C and beyond. What a lot of people don't realize is that it's not only people who have stories. Objects, philosophies, places, names, words, all have a history behind them.
Flea markets are one of those love/hate things. Something about people trying to sell their used items for extra money, as if they didn't get enough use out of it, galls some people. But there's a charm to flea markets, a sort of atmosphere that evokes an old world bazaar. Sure, there's stalls full of broken knick knacks and tarnished silverware, but for people who have certain interests, there's that metaphorical genie in a bottle just waiting to be found.
I went to one of New York's local markets with my aunt the other day, and had an amusing time perusing the oddities. Burlap sacks from the days where marijuana would have been shipped wholesale, proudly printed with its country of origin. Heavy iron pie tins, and steel kitchen implements that wouldn't look out of place in a civil war surgeon's bag. An ornately decorated sword for fifteen dollars, which upon closer inspection possessed a blade so loose as if to guarantee a hole in the wall upon your first practice swing. Pins from presidential campaigns of old, proclaiming the wearer's fondness for Ike or their premature faith in Nixon.
There was an antique army helmet, of US make, dating back to WWII, the faded date of 1943 stamped on the inside. It intrigued me, and I agonized over buying or not buying it, because although an interesting and unique item, 70 dollars could be spent more sensibly. Alas, when I returned it had walked off with someone not so conflicted. However, positioned next to it had been a German helmet of similar design, except badly pitted and rusted by what looked like seawater.
Going back to the topic of stories, it made me think about the two helmets, and both their stories. The Allied helmet was in good condition, not struck by any sort of visible damage. It's owner had most likely survived the conflict, and brought it back home, only to sell it to this antique dealer. The axis helmet, however, was in very bad shape, A large hole in the back of the helmet belied it's owners fate, shot down on some foreign beach somewhere, the lifeless corpse half submerged in sandy surf. His helmet having failed in its sole task, consigned to a salty, slow decay. Then most likely, some hours, days, or months later, recovered and sent to next of kin, or to the state, or to some other unknown location until it ended up here in New York in 2014. Did the wearers of both helmets meet on the battlefield?
The point of this long rambling tangent is that although the more undamaged helmet held more interest to me initially, it was ultimately the rusted and chipped helmet that hid the more interesting tale. Sometimes, the more damaged something is, the greater depths it has.
As it is with objects, so is often the case with people.
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