The Picker's Life
Following a full day of picking, as I sit in my AirBnB’s attic hideaway, I’m keenly aware of one thing: God has provided for me to do this. By “this” I mean hop in the cargo van and travel to points unknown to all but me, and while away the day turning over spider web-encrusted furniture in dusty rooms.
I look forward to these infrequent getaways for weeks. The length of time away always varies, but whenever I land I am on my knees at night praising Him for this opportunity. Some women anticipate spa trips with friends, an island getaway with their husbands, or a family ski trip. Though each of those escapes also entices me, I am giddy the week before a junking trip.
The world sees a barn sale or vintage show beautifully curated, however the road to get it that way could never be confused with glamorous.
We pickers are often up before dawn jostling for a plum place in line at an estate sale that opens at 9 a.m., usually with other folks who haven’t showered either. Or we trudge through field after dusty field at a mid-summer’s flea market. Rain doesn’t keep sellers home, so we dress accordingly for the show that does go on. And that includes snow, cold and slush. The Amish have a word for their spring markets: mud sales. Splinters, sore muscles and grime are included in the picker’s registration packet.
I wouldn’t miss any of it for the world. When I slip between those sheets after a long bath and mentally survey my haul sitting outside in the van, the feeling is akin to sitting back and admiring all my freshly-mopped floors: uber-productive.
When I’ve finished setting my space at the Country Living Fair, and everyone but the staff has gone home, I love wandering amongst the other booths, admiring their displays and thoughtful placement. I know and appreciate the work and consideration that went into choosing each piece. Because I’ve just finished doing the same thing.