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Health & Fitness

Old Things Considered: Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be antique dealers

Another empty storefront on the Avenue? What are we waiting for?

. . .and in other news this week, the little coffee shop that once was a bank has closed its doors and people are wondering what’s going to occupy the space next. All I can say is, “Don’t let our daughter find out.” If she does, Ken is in trouble.

Some kids have lemonade stands, and that’s cool, I suppose. I can remember planting marigold seeds in little Dixie cups and going door-to-door in Westview Park with my chum Darlene, trying to sell the as yet unsprouted plants. No takers, for the record. Fast forward a generation. It was only a matter of time before our daughter’s entrepreneurial spirit would kick in. And because she grew up in a household that cherishes old stuff, it was a no-brainer what she would do. And thus was born “Polly Esther.”

I remember it well. Spring break was fast approaching, and Catonsville High was sponsoring a flea market after the kids got back to the books for that last stretch before summer. We needed a project around here, and after careful consideration, Ken and I offered Katherine $75 seed money to buy merchandise for re-sale, enough to stock a booth at the flea market. As an aside, we saw this as a rather inexpensive alternative to other forms of spring break fun for a high school junior. Besides, we figured, it might be a learning experience as well.

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Katherine decided that she would sell vintage clothing. After thinking through her business strategy, she opted for volume, volume, volume, and low overhead. Translation: nothing would cost more than $5.

We spent most of the week of spring break scavenging through thrift shops.  Our favorite was a mission store in Sykesville that sold things by the bag. She has a good eye for fashion and knew what her friends would want.

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Well, to make a long story short, our girl did quite well at the flea market. She sold Hawaiian shirts, prom dresses (hey, under five bucks, who could resist?), and, of course, a great deal of polyester. Having proven her enterprise successful, with a built-in clientele of friends who wanted to look cool without charging about with their Moms in search of vintage clothing, she decided to press onward. She hosted some basement shopping parties (think Tupperware), and when she enrolled in a weeklong seminar in Towson for budding poets, she outfitted the entire class for its Hawaiian-themed end-of-session reading.

Sales were reduced to a trickle when her marketing schemes became few and far between; I suppose we can thank the rigors of college life for that. In the end, she liquidated her entire inventory to a dealer in Fells Point, and we reclaimed a corner of our basement. But there is no doubt she had bitten by the bug.

Meanwhile, Ken has way more stuff stashed away than any one family could ever enjoy. We rotate his inventory of cool stuff, but still. . . . And so, from time to time, Katherine suggests they go together and sell old pottery, old clothes, and paint-by-numbers pictures. And I cringe.

So please, don’t tell her about the empty storefront. Even though the space is begging for an antique dealer.

Oh, and, for the record, she paid us back the $75.

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