My lovely fiancée insisted that I take her to the junkyard. So what is a gentleman to do? I took her to the junkyard. Her 16 year-old son, who needs some parts for his 1978 Z28 Camaro, and I were going and so it seemed natural to her that she tag along. My fiancée's 19 year-old daughter thought that she might be missing an adventure, so she came along also. And when my fiancée's brother heard that we were going to the junkyard he jumped on board as well. In total there were five of us packed into the sedan for a family trip to the junkyard.
The junkyard in question is the local “pick ‘n pull� an automotive recycling facility that, for a nominal fee, allows members of the general public to wander through rows and rows of wrecked cars and pull the parts that they need to repair their cars. The common image of the junkyard is towering piles of hulks stacked five or six deep in a random piles, but the pick and pull yards are relatively tidy rows of individual cars up on blocks, segregated by company of origin. The Fords and their kin (the Lincolns and Mercurys) are in one section, all examples of Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodge are in another and anything that came from General Motors is in another grouping. All cars made overseas are lumped into the “Foreign� banner so you have Hondas, beside Toyotas, beside Nissan with a healthy seasoning of European makes as well.
The original intent of the trip to the junkyard was for my 16 year-old son and me plus my soon-to-be-stepson, who is the 16 year-old keeper of the Camaro, to rummage around the junkyard to find a few parts for our cars. A bit of practical shopping with some male bonding thrown in. The plan was to do the modern equivalent of the hunter gathering foraging activities our ancestors enjoyed on the Serengeti Plain eons ago but in a contemporary urban setting. Afterwards we would emulate the feast of freshly killed meat that the ancients enjoyed after their hunt. In our case, we planned to stop for hamburgers at a favorite ‘burger pit on the way home.
Coordinating schedules for the three of us is always a challenge and we keep making and canceling the date for the three of us to go to the junkyard. The winter holiday break came and my son is off on a long anticipated trip. But the young man with the Camaro had an urgent need for so Camaro parts and so we decide to go as a duo. But once the date was set and we were figuratively on the way out the door, the Camaro driver’s Mom (and my fiancée) asked to join the expedition. “Honey,� I said, “it is just a dirty old junkyard.� “But I have heard you talk about it and I have read your posts about how much fun you have at the junkyard so I want to see for myself, “ my lovely intended replied.
At this point the trip to the junkyard stopped being about male bonding and more about family togetherness. The Camaro driver's sister, a 19 year-old Animal Behavior major, joined the party. Gammon cute and precious in her BoHo fashion, she felt that the opportunity to see Gear Head Rex in his natural setting was too good an opportunity to pass up. And to round out the party at the junkyard, my fiancée’s brother joined in to find a replacement for a busted taillight on his daily driver.
Before we left the house I had to give a few pointers about attire for the junkyard. In particular the ladies needed to trade their stylish footwear for more practical shoes and I cautioned that a flowing hippie-chick skirt would not peacefully coexist with ragged, rusty sheet metal. The shoes got changed but the skirt stayed on the Animal Behaviorist and so we were off for the junkyard.
Not to say that my fiancée and her family have led a sheltered life, but I think they were surprised to discover a section of town that contained junkyards, industrial warehouses and low-cost housing. They observed the new terrain as if visiting a foreign country.
Once we arrived and entered the junkyard itself the ladies were overwhelmed by the acres of junked cars before them. To them, all the hulks looked the same. But to the Camaro driver and I the individual models were obvious. We soon scouted out the parts we needed and lifted them from the hulks. My fiancée’s brother wandered the foreign section looking in vain for a car similar to his to yield a tail light. He soon learned that there is no guarantees of finding the exact part you seek; he got skunked on this trip.
The Animal Behaviorist was bemused to discover the materiel possessions left behind in the cars now in the junkyard. She recreated whole life and lifestyles based upon the children’s toys, articles of clothing and empty cassette cases scattered across the floor of the cars in the lot. She found a lovely wool scarf in one car and declared that her trip to the junkyard was a success in spite of catching her skirt on a snag and putting a small tear in the fabric.
My fiancée daintily walked amongst the cars and took vicarious pleasure in the success her son had in finding the parts he needed. She came to recognize the cars as individuals and helped to scout out potential parts donors.
As the setting sun began to dip below the horizon, we gathered our junkyard treasures and checked out at the cashier’s window. For less than $40 (including admission) we carted off parts that would be several times more expensive if bought from the local parts store of dealer’s part’s counter.
And we celebrated the successful hunt by feasting. But rather than the roasted meat I had originally planned to share with the two young male hunter-gatherers, I ended up eating a vegetarian dinner of falafel, pita bread and eggplant with the Animal Behaviorist and her mother.