JUNKYARD Action Auto Recyclers was next to Bill’s Barbershop, across from Leach’s Meats and Sweets. On Saturdays, you could get a maple cream stick, flattop from a one-legged man, and a radiator — all in the same morning. The cars rested on a sloping field behind a rough brown office, row upon row. After some chitchat with the man at the desk, who constantly realigned his glasses on his nose, Dad and I would wander out into the yard. A pristine blue sky poured over the wreckage below. Was it a Pontiac we came for? A Buick? A Dodge Caravan? Your eyes adjusted to what you needed to see: ‘78? ‘89? Brand new ‘93? The mud often swallowed my little boots with a gurgle, until dad heaved me out by my armpits. My father could make any car run. I’ve seen the man saw a car in half — right there in our garage — and weld it back together, using two different bodies. Hood latch? Armrest? Steering column? Apologies to the nest of mice we disturbed taking out a dash! You’d find clumps of hair in the headbutted windshields: Yellow? Red? Brunette? Sometimes there’d be teeth. A transmission? Starter? Leaf spring? A man with a cigarette dangling from his lip, fired-up a front loader and moved salvaged cars around like chess pieces. A quarter panel? Fuel pump? Automatic driver’s seat? After hauling-out what we came for, we’d climb in dad’s work truck, itself held together by junkyard parts, and head home, where he would teach me to rebuild.
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