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Stationed along side me during my ritual Friday manicure, the polished priss gushed over the cheetah ring I slipped on to my index finger. “A conversation piece,” the middle aged woman remarked. I smiled.
“Vintage?” she asked. I smiled again. “Then you must check out the show this weekend. Last year, I picked up the most fabulous silver fox coat—fifff-ty dollllars.” She blew on her new set of acrylics and filled me in on the annual Salt City Antiques Show. On a mission to collect her kids from the bus stop, my new friend slipped directions into my purse.
I pulled up to a deserted lot the following morning and barely recognized the New York State Fairgrounds. With zero vendors or tourists in sight, I ventured into the Century of Progress Building. A sign read:
October 25 & 26
Admission:
$6.00 day pass
$7.00 VIP weekend pass
I decided on the former.
A steady flow of baby boomers streamed into the doors. I felt outnumbered. Unsure where to begin, row A or row M, I turned my attention: accessories.
I poked through a pile of charms, perusing pieces of Lucite, enamel, and ox bone. An array of deco animal brooches sparkled under a glass surface. In an adjacent booth, a man dressed as if he headed for a horse race (including top hat and bow tie) approached me.
“Some of these clothes are made for you,” he insisted, escorting me over to a red floor-length sequin gown.
“How about the leopard print?” he asked.
I laughed.
And moved on to handbags. I ventured to a particular corner of row C. Chainmail purses with cut steal beads laid across a table, remnants of the Art Nouveau era. The price tag read $28. I petted a perfect python purse circa 1940.
“You want it? I'll give it to you for $20,” the owner offered.
I hit the jackpot. But rather than settle, I continued my way through the venue. I saw a hot-pink flash in the distance caused my heart to skip a beat.
“Elsa Schiaparelli!” I uttered to myself. A trace of the 1950s, the hat box called to me from a mile a way. I pounced.
“Pretty blue hat,” a group of grandmas announced as they doted on me. With the asymmetrical piece in place, I looked in the mirror.
“You have the looks to carry off everything,” the chorus of grannies ooed and awwed.
To test it, I jumped up and down. The toque remained fixed. Unwilling to remove it from my head, I made my purchase, my mission accomplished.
“You gotta sway a little bit more when you walk,” one of the grannies called after me.
I work it through the tide of boomers right back out to the parking lot.