While other families were playing table games, my family worked on our rickety old cars. It wasn’t a hobby, it was a necessity. We simply couldn’t afford to pay a real mechanic and as a result all four brothers learned how to repair practically anything at an early age. Not having a garage only added to the degree of difficulty. We worked on our cars in the driveway… a gravel driveway. Have you ever tried to find a tiny star washer that’s been dropped onto limestone? Take my word for it, it’s nearly impossible!
Every job proved challenging, from major repairs like engines and transmissions to minor maintenance like starters and brakes. We worked with misfit tools like rounded-off screw drivers and mismatched wrenches. If it weren’t for vise grips and a crescent wrench, we’d have been sunk. New parts were simply not in our backyard budget.
We did all our shopping at Miller’s Junkyard, perched high atop Chickencoop Hill, which may be one of Fairfield County’s least known scenic vistas. My earliest memories of that sweeping view include rows of abandoned vintage automobiles.
Mr. Miller was a slender man with leather for skin. He wore a bracelet of copper wire that, although it had long ago turned his wrist gangrenous green, failed to dampen his faith in it as an arthritic remedy. Mr. Miller was harmless enough, but his public demeanor precluded the need for a junk yard dog. From my teenage perspective it seemed he was enfolded in a cloud of no-nonsense. My stomach tightened as I entered the hallowed grounds of his junk yard, scanning the property for a hint of his presence—smoke from his acetylene torch or the whine of his antique wrecker, or perhaps the aroma of his ubiquitous cigar.
Spotting him, I approached tenuously—like stalking big game, I didn’t want to startle him, perhaps spoiling any chance of negotiation. Ah…there he was, torching the entrails from an overturned 48 Hudson. I circled wide, making sure to approach in his line of vision. Finally, he peered up at me, his soot covered face projecting the whites of his eyes. Turning back to his work, he muttered through cigar clenching teeth, “What the h___ do you want?” The blue-hot flames of the rose-bud torch punctuated his epitaph.
A novice might render Mr. Miller’s greeting as off-putting, like I’d just poked the bear. But as a seasoned veteran of Miller’s Junk Yard, I interpreted the same greeting to mean, “Oh…it’s just you. How can I help you today?”
Mr. Miller had no interest in being my therapist or my mechanical advisor. He was a parts man, plain and simple. Looking back, I love the simplicity of that relationship. The key was to get right to business. He didn’t give a rat’s tail what I’d broken, or what kind of trouble I was having. He just wanted to know what part I needed.
A man of few words, he taught me how to “cut to the chase” with nary a “how are you.” Just “Whaddyawant?” and as quickly as the conversation began, it was over.
My turn, “I need a starter for a 53 Flathead V8.” His turn, “Ain’t got one.”
That was it—no “let me think” or “”I’ll check my inventory” niceties. Either he had it or he didn’t, and he always knew. If he had what you needed, he’d mumble, “K, I’ll pull it after I get done here or you can pull it yourself. Five bucks.”
Some people are inspired by nature. Me, I love junk yards.
As a pastor, I regularly speak with people who are convinced they’ve wrecked their lives. Others have been caught up in someone else’s wreckage. Good thing God is in the restoration business. He views our wrecks as opportunities for Him to restore us.
“I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11
I believe that when God looks out over the wrecked landscape of our lives, He sees the potential in every person for good. To prove it, He willingly paid the price to restore each of us. I wonder what He recommends for arthritis.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.