Because a friend asked me to post it, I offer you this......
Purple. Regal, royal purple. That was the colour of the drawstring bag I kept my treasures in as a child. The drawstring bag was not filled with ordinary, run-of-the-mill childhood treasures. Oh no! My drawstring bag was filled with Junkyard Treasures which, I can assure you, are far more valuable and of infinitely greater beauty than other treasures. My Junkyard Treasures had been gleaned from trips to the junkyard (hence their name) and included such miraculous discoveries as assorted vehicle badges, portions of tail light lenses, smallish pieces of chrome or stainless steel trim and, most wonderful of all, lovely bits of windshield glass.
The windshields in the cars of my youth tended to shatter into the most amazing pieces. They were not shards, exactly, more like smallish chunks about as wide and long as they were thick. The glass from the top of the windshields of fancier cars with blue-tinted glass stood out from the assorted greens and colourless bits like some sort of rare gemstones. Stirring the bits of windshield glass about or sifting them through my fingers was a sensory delight. The coolness of the glass, the sharp edges, the glitter of light and the tinkle of piece against piece, bright as laughter, was a complete (if simple) pleasure.
I toted my drawstring bag of treasures about until it was discovered that I was carrying around a bag of broken glass and sharp shards of metal. The bag was taken from me and the contents disposed of in a safe and appropriate fashion. I mourned the loss of my treasure bag until the man who lived upstairs learned of my disappointment and provided me with another purple drawstring bag which I gradually—and secretively—filled with assorted vehicle badges, portions of tail light lenses, smallish pieces of chrome or stainless steel trim and, most of all, lovely bits of windshield glass. The man upstairs never broke confidence and my new bag of Junkyard Treasures remained concealed for quite some time. Somewhere along the line, it disappeared, as such things seem to have a habit of doing, but the ghost of collected treasures lingers, colouring the edges of memory, whispering of sun-baked metal hulks, of reflections of the sky and of old-car smells.
Several weeks ago, I wandered through a junkyard...though these days I prefer to call such a place, more flatteringly, a car farm. With an indulgent nod from the car farmer, I took photographs of many of the vehicles, finding beauty in the way moss had curved around a tail light or the way a tree had pushed through a grille. As I stood looking into the trees, smiling at the still-elegant form of a decaying pickup, the car farmer appeared behind me. “What a bunch of junk, eh?” he suggested. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. He chuckled, “Beautiful? Well, I guess so.”
I guess so, indeed.
Over the course of the afternoon, we learned the history of most of the vehicles making up the car farmer’s crop. We learned which had been the honeymoon car and which had been grandpa’s farm truck. We learned that the front quarter panel on this car had been fashioned from the rear quarter panel from that car. We learned the identity of the Cougar’s original owner and an interesting way to keep mice from damaging a stored vehicle’s interior. Over the course of the afternoon, we shared some of our own experiences with the car farmer, including a brief history of my drawstring bag of Junkyard Treasures. The car farmer understood.
Something happens when people who share a passion meet. Before the afternoon had passed, we had formed a friendship with the man who was compelled to hold on to the old cars and trucks so many other people had discarded. We understood one another’s obsessions and accepted one another’s oddities. Times such as these, I can’t help but believe we all have shared access to some sort of collective memory bank, for we seem to draw from the same source. Perhaps it is simply that we recognise in one another something of ourselves.
Obsession feeds obsession I suppose, for in the weeks following this visit, the car farmer will call to tell me of another car farm which he believes we ought to have a nose ‘round. There are some two thousand cars there, he will tell me. Although I will wonder if this isn’t something of an exaggeration, I will promise we will go. We will brave swarms of bloodthirsty mosquitoes and thunderous hailstorms to visit it. Because of a previous bad experience, the other car farmer will only allow me to take photographs on the stipulation that the images remain for my own personal use. Because I will have no intention of doing otherwise, I will agree. I will enjoy every minute I spend wandering through some two thousand vehicles (it will turn out not to be an exaggeration after all) and I will—we all will—arrive home hot and bug-bitten, tired and happy. This is, of course, still ahead and unforeseen as we stand in the sun with our newly discovered (or is he newly remembered?) friend.
There are some things a person never outgrows. As I stood just a little back, leaning against a once-magnificent Buick and listening to my husband and the car farmer discussing the relative merits of various restoration methods, I noticed a smallish pile of broken windshield glass on the dash. Without real thought I lifted several pieces, feeling their cool weight and their sharp edges, rolling them together in my palm. Noticing a silence, I looked up to see the car farmer and my husband watching me. “I can get you a bag for those if you like,” the car farmer offered.
Perhaps I should have said yes.
Purple. Regal, royal purple. That was the colour of the drawstring bag I kept my treasures in as a child. The drawstring bag was not filled with ordinary, run-of-the-mill childhood treasures. Oh no! My drawstring bag was filled with Junkyard Treasures which, I can assure you, are far more valuable and of infinitely greater beauty than other treasures. My Junkyard Treasures had been gleaned from trips to the junkyard (hence their name) and included such miraculous discoveries as assorted vehicle badges, portions of tail light lenses, smallish pieces of chrome or stainless steel trim and, most wonderful of all, lovely bits of windshield glass.
The windshields in the cars of my youth tended to shatter into the most amazing pieces. They were not shards, exactly, more like smallish chunks about as wide and long as they were thick. The glass from the top of the windshields of fancier cars with blue-tinted glass stood out from the assorted greens and colourless bits like some sort of rare gemstones. Stirring the bits of windshield glass about or sifting them through my fingers was a sensory delight. The coolness of the glass, the sharp edges, the glitter of light and the tinkle of piece against piece, bright as laughter, was a complete (if simple) pleasure.
I toted my drawstring bag of treasures about until it was discovered that I was carrying around a bag of broken glass and sharp shards of metal. The bag was taken from me and the contents disposed of in a safe and appropriate fashion. I mourned the loss of my treasure bag until the man who lived upstairs learned of my disappointment and provided me with another purple drawstring bag which I gradually—and secretively—filled with assorted vehicle badges, portions of tail light lenses, smallish pieces of chrome or stainless steel trim and, most of all, lovely bits of windshield glass. The man upstairs never broke confidence and my new bag of Junkyard Treasures remained concealed for quite some time. Somewhere along the line, it disappeared, as such things seem to have a habit of doing, but the ghost of collected treasures lingers, colouring the edges of memory, whispering of sun-baked metal hulks, of reflections of the sky and of old-car smells.
Several weeks ago, I wandered through a junkyard...though these days I prefer to call such a place, more flatteringly, a car farm. With an indulgent nod from the car farmer, I took photographs of many of the vehicles, finding beauty in the way moss had curved around a tail light or the way a tree had pushed through a grille. As I stood looking into the trees, smiling at the still-elegant form of a decaying pickup, the car farmer appeared behind me. “What a bunch of junk, eh?” he suggested. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. He chuckled, “Beautiful? Well, I guess so.”
I guess so, indeed.
Over the course of the afternoon, we learned the history of most of the vehicles making up the car farmer’s crop. We learned which had been the honeymoon car and which had been grandpa’s farm truck. We learned that the front quarter panel on this car had been fashioned from the rear quarter panel from that car. We learned the identity of the Cougar’s original owner and an interesting way to keep mice from damaging a stored vehicle’s interior. Over the course of the afternoon, we shared some of our own experiences with the car farmer, including a brief history of my drawstring bag of Junkyard Treasures. The car farmer understood.
Something happens when people who share a passion meet. Before the afternoon had passed, we had formed a friendship with the man who was compelled to hold on to the old cars and trucks so many other people had discarded. We understood one another’s obsessions and accepted one another’s oddities. Times such as these, I can’t help but believe we all have shared access to some sort of collective memory bank, for we seem to draw from the same source. Perhaps it is simply that we recognise in one another something of ourselves.
Obsession feeds obsession I suppose, for in the weeks following this visit, the car farmer will call to tell me of another car farm which he believes we ought to have a nose ‘round. There are some two thousand cars there, he will tell me. Although I will wonder if this isn’t something of an exaggeration, I will promise we will go. We will brave swarms of bloodthirsty mosquitoes and thunderous hailstorms to visit it. Because of a previous bad experience, the other car farmer will only allow me to take photographs on the stipulation that the images remain for my own personal use. Because I will have no intention of doing otherwise, I will agree. I will enjoy every minute I spend wandering through some two thousand vehicles (it will turn out not to be an exaggeration after all) and I will—we all will—arrive home hot and bug-bitten, tired and happy. This is, of course, still ahead and unforeseen as we stand in the sun with our newly discovered (or is he newly remembered?) friend.
There are some things a person never outgrows. As I stood just a little back, leaning against a once-magnificent Buick and listening to my husband and the car farmer discussing the relative merits of various restoration methods, I noticed a smallish pile of broken windshield glass on the dash. Without real thought I lifted several pieces, feeling their cool weight and their sharp edges, rolling them together in my palm. Noticing a silence, I looked up to see the car farmer and my husband watching me. “I can get you a bag for those if you like,” the car farmer offered.
Perhaps I should have said yes.
2 comments:
Thank you :0) Now I can comment to your sweet words! :0)
Dolly
I love your descriptive words! Thanx Mylene - you are very inspiring!
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