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By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff Writer
Since I love old cars, I love junkyards. Every old car or truck has a story or three to tell, and with junkyards, the stories are not told by the page, but by the acre.
These unwritten classics are rusty, dusty, silently waiting for the final ride to a crusher. Some are simply forgotten beneath honeysuckle, kudzu and plain old weeds, their seats now bird nests and mouse dens.
My first vehicles were a 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air, and a rather tired 1961 Chevy truck. Both were old enough to be considered classics at the time, although for my truck that was an exercise in extreme euphemism.
Many of my favorite memories are of Saturday mornings spent combing the countryside with the Old Man, trying to find a new junkyard that would have a tail-light housing, carburetor mount, or fan blade.
I have often noted how Papa somehow managed to keep a white shirt white when we went on these outings; while he was no mechanic, he wasn’t afraid of a wrench or hard work.
But before we fixed the problem, we had to find the part.
Sometimes – often on a lovely spring day when working or staying in the house would have been crimes against humanity – Papa would casually suggest that maybe we should go see if we could find the latest part which somehow eluded capture.
I’m pretty sure Papa and I covered every salvage yard in four counties. The Old Man drove a lot, so he knew of junkyards that people had forgotten existed.
And the vehicles we found were the stuff dreams are made of. Norges. Packards. Willys. Studebakers of all shapes, sizes, and ages.
Inst and amongst the forgotten and the forgettable, we found a few of the inexplicable.
We found a 1938 Packard touring car that was converted into a motor home. Had Hurricane Hazel not smashed the roof, letting rainwater ruin everything, I’m pretty sure the owner would have still been driving that ungainly, probably illegal, incredibly powerful car.
The cabinetwork in the camper was artistic, the metal-to-wood framing was seamless, and the color was pink. And the darn thing still ran – it just couldn’t be driven, since the rear end was worn out. Like the old ads said, nothing purrs like a straight-eight motor.
At an isolated yard which was later raided for selling moonshine, we found a British World War II military Land Rover with a machine gun mount and a table showing the aiming angles for incoming aircraft. There was never an explanation for that one.
But the best stories would be told by the lines of everyday cars and trucks that lay in irregular lines, tires sagging or snatched, billygoat grass and broomstraw fighting a never ending battle with old black oil, dehydrated gear lube, and plain old grease.
The junkyard I visited the other day – purely for purposes recreational and sentimental – was much the same.
A bright red muscle car, now faded to a more sedate and embarrassed pink, rested on the remains of three cracked magnesium wheels, its former owner now long graduated to minivans and sensible sedans, never again to know the thrill of a Saturday night drag race on a country road.
Or the panel-sided station wagon, one from the years when such a wagon meant you were a family, and needed such a car for trips to the grocery store, baseball or football practice (no soccer yet) and the once-in-a-lifetime road trip to Disney.
There was a solid, once-reliable, but lonesome-looking little Chrysler two-door, the kind of car which so many widows and widowers end up driving, a car which none of the kids want when their parents pass away.
Such little cars are like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree to me; they aren’t bad, they just need a little love and care.
I don’t often have to scrounge for parts anymore; as such, I rarely have a reason to visit junkyards. I have to admit, I kind of miss them.
I miss the stacks of smooth-tired rims, the piles of alternators, the hodgepodge of starters and carbs and air conditioners that might or might not work.
I miss the mystery of where a vehicle came from, and why it ended up here.
I miss a time when vehicles came from Detroit, were made of steel and iron and chrome, and gas mileage wasn’t the first consideration.
I miss visiting places where the stories are measured by the acre, and the dreams could pave an endless highway.
Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter. He may be reached via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz, or via telephone at 642-4104, ext 227.
Weaver is a writer who lives in the Kelly community.
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