It was truly a cultural experience to visit the Friendship Flea Market in Friendship, Indiana, which is held in conjunction with the gathering of
muzzle loading rifle enthusiasts so one can shop for scraps of animal remains and confederate flags to the sounds of surrounding gunfire. “What are they shooting at?” I asked. My mom: *shrug*
“Could we inadvertently be hit by random gunfire?” I asked. My mom: *shrug*
Obviously, I over react to perceived danger, but I sensed an ominous triad: rednecks, guns and woods. I was also alarmed at the mass quantities and availability of animal parts ranging from horns and skunk skulls to raccoon ribs and pheasants feet. No, these were not delicacies, but evidentally meant to be used as apparel or home decor.
I’ll bet my 3 dollar trucker hat that my some of my friends–and you know who you are *coughKeenancough*–are laughing because they think this stuff is just made up by Jeff Foxworthy. I assure you, truth is stranger than fiction.
Other things I got to see at the flea market:
It was hot and dusty and when it came time to eat, I couldn’t bring myself to consume the food from a trailer. Besides, no one had fried dill pickles so I was mildly disappointed. I love fried dill pickles, which only goes to show that I, too, have redneck tendencies which frightens me at times. We walked to the other end of town where I finally spotted the site of gunfire. “Oh, wow, can we go shoot sum guns too?” I asked my sister.
“No, you have to be part of the group,” she told me.
“What group? The KKK?”
Oops, did I say that out loud? Think I’m kidding? Thought the south had a monopoly on the KKK? Indiana proud Guns, confederate flags and monster trucks. And god, these people love their tobacco. You do the math.
I finally decided on a safe ice cream cone. I found butter pecan which was sold to be by a hacking woman with frizzy hair. I assumed she was just a smoker. As we were sitting on a bench cooling off and enjoying my cone, I saw the woman walking around outside her little food trailer. “Oh, I’m so sick,” she says.
“What?? You’re sick? You just gave me ice cream! You don’t have Hep A, do ya?”
My mom piped up and told me how rude I was. I figured I had a right to know.
“Too late,” my sister observed, as I was currently sucking the last of the ice cream from the bottom of the cone.
“Oh, no, I had a heat stroke in ’94 and have never been the same since,” the frizzy woman told me. I decided not to engage in this conversation. I wasn’t aware that heat stroke had such longterm effects.
What the heck? I bet you can’t find a Three Buck Buckeye hat anywhere else.