Juliet McDermott

Whenever I’m itching to get off campus for a little retail therapy, I escape to the Brunswick Flea Market for a Saturday morning and lose myself in its maze of maximalist antiques and carefully made crafts. This happens more than I’d like to admit. AirPods in, channeling my best no-nonsense New Yorker walk, I don’t often break this personal version of a silent meditation, let alone pull one of the vendors into an echoey, sunlit room in the Fort Andross Mill for an interview.

But then again, no one else has offered me Prada boots for $30 or sported a pin cheekily declaring “the more men I meet, the more I prefer dogs.”

Something about this 23-year-old jewelry maker clad entirely in pink—down to her iPhone—made me want to get to know her. As we sit down, she chatters a mile a minute about how she wouldn’t have agreed to this a year ago, but she’s trying to say yes more—and oh, what’s my zodiac sign?

And when Crystal Gilbert was so excited to hear that I was a Virgo that she spilled her fuji-apple-pear Celsius all over the bench, I knew that this Libra and I were going to be friends.

As Crystal cheerfully tells me about the Mill’s “insane” elevator shaft that’s too old to use, it’s clear that she somehow fits perfectly into the rhythm of a building older than her grandparents.

She recalls a recent “priceless” moment at the market when a customer told her she was excited to come across her booth and buy a jewelry jar because she had bought one from Crystal two or three years earlier. The realization hit instantly: that earlier jar would have been filled with Crystal’s very first handmade pieces, like the safety pin earrings that changed her life.

Crystal didn’t set out to become a jewelry maker. In fact, while always attracting artistic friends, she didn’t even think of herself as creative. Growing up in Augusta with parents who didn’t drive, independence came later than she wanted, and life mostly revolved around part-time work, which was further limited by a chronic illness. She worried about something I’m hearing more and more from my friends: not having a hobby or creative outlet of her own.

Then one day she made a pair of safety pin earrings, posted them to an Instagram resale account and people immediately wanted to buy them. Her reaction was instant: “Oh my god … wait. I could do something here.”

Soon her bedroom was overflowing with beads from Joann’s, and every spare moment became jewelry making time. Not work—joy. The kind of joy where you finish something and just have to squeal. Now, she says, she’s mostly transitioned into upcycling, using materials sourced from the flea market itself—a shift that feels perfectly in line with the world she has built there, one where old things keep finding new lives.

A 19-year-old Crystal began hauling a 50-pound tote of jewelry to Portland markets every weekend, setting up alone with a cheap plastic folding table and a lot of hope. The experience quickly taught her lessons about foot traffic, target audiences and the quiet heartbreak of realizing certain markets simply weren’t her people. Surprisingly, it didn’t discourage her. If anything, it clarified what mattered most: finding the right community.

So when she spotted a small sign at the Brunswick Flea Market reading “booth rental available,” she texted the new manager before she could talk herself out of it. Her first day’s sales were disappointing. But the feeling wasn’t.

“Something still felt really dreamy here,” she tells me. “Like this is where I’m supposed to be.”

We’re interrupted by Tony, who has worked in the Mill since the 70s, and who Crystal calls her “pseudo grandfather.” She’s not exaggerating. Tony greets her with a “Hey, granddaughter,” and gives her a hug, which I’m told he does every single day he sees her.

Crystal’s two best friends are her booth neighbors, Alicia, who Crystal describes as “me but just in her 50s,” and Ricky, a “60-year-old short little spiritual cowboy.”

And while Crystal can’t imagine a time without Alicia, there was one.

In yet another miracle of the universe, a few months before Crystal set up shop, Ricky returned after 20 years away. From the moment she was placed in the neighboring booth, he became Crystal’s “therapist-dad-bestie,” a man who stood out for not wanting or expecting something from her. Any labor Crystal needs help with—necessary or not—Ricky is there.

After admitting all she ever reads are self-help books, her eyes light up.

“Do you know about spoon theory?” she asks.

I shake my head, and Crystal explains that theoretically, each person only has a certain number of spoons, stand-ins for your mental wellbeing. You lend out a spoon every time you’re expressing care for another, like giving your friend help. But you inevitably run out of spoons and need to replenish, signaling when you need to step back and recharge.

At this point, she preemptively grins and says, “Oh, one thing I’ll tell you.… Oh my god, this is just so special.”

She describes how a year ago, Ricky found a spoon with a rose at the end of it and asked her to make a ring with it. While Crystal was puzzled, seeing that Ricky doesn’t wear jewelry, she agreed, and he wears that ring on his pinky finger every single day. One day, she was having a breakdown in front of him, and he told her, “I wear this because I will always carry a spoon for you—no matter what.”

When Crystal describes herself as “so curious about people’s feelings” and needing to find others who share that curiosity, she’s really describing the crossroads she’s standing at. Throwing herself into every community she finds, Crystal has spent the past three years at the flea market doing far more than selling jewelry. It has been a crash course in communication, vulnerability, generosity over jealousy and authenticity over performance. In many ways, the experience mirrors an undergraduate education—a few intense years spent figuring out who you are and what kind of life you want to build.

But curiosity also means uncertainty. Crystal doesn’t know what the next chapter looks like yet. When the conversation turns to the future, her voice softens. She doesn’t think she could leave. She’s not ready. After all, how do you leave a place that helped you become who you are?

The great thing about friends is that they push you to expand the bounds of the world you want to know. Sometimes it takes a couple of meals, sometimes it takes a group vacation. Crystal took an hour and 29 minutes. Next time I’m scanning the booths of the flea market, I won’t be silently searching for a rare find or a good deal anymore. I’m looking for my friend and her chosen family. Because no matter what Crystal decides to do next, I have no doubt that she’ll be surrounded by people who will carry spoons for her.