I woke up this morning from a dream about E and I going to Englishtown with my father. This is not something that is going to happen, but it was weird, because we are our current ages and he was about 55. He is 75, so it was just a little bizarre. We were seeing Englishtown as I remember it, not as it is today, which is just not as good. If it is not the biggest flea market in the US, it was at one time. There are acres and acres of yardsale junk, as well as legitimate vendors with anything and everything you can imagine, and trucloads of (likely) stolen goods. I wish it was somewhere I could visit often, but it is in NJ. I am hoping that we can go when we visit in October. We can get up Sunday morning and drive down.
I know it will be different as I have not been myself in about 20 years. My memories of it are from thirty years ago, so there is no illusion about it having changed. My aunt no longer works for the pocketbook vendor, who likely IS still there. She is in her eighties now. I am sure you can no longer get Chuck Taylors for eight bucks a pair, but if I get there, and if they are available at all, I might have to get a pair anyway.
I am hoping there is still a fresh peanut vendor roasting on the premises and I am hoping that Walt still has a food stand selling Taylor pork roll sandwiches.
I doubt my aunt will be up to going as the dusty grounds are not amicable to her lung transplant, but perhaps my cousins might want to make the trip. Of course, it might be better if they do not. E and I can then enjoy it more for the experience.
It is hard to not have expectations about it as the memories are from so long ago. Not only is it something I have somehow romanticized, it is something that has changed a lot in thirty years. I still want to go.