Milwaukee Boneyard, 1936. from shorpy.com
The junkyard for my Dad is nothing short of paradise on a chrome platter. I spent three years one day in a huge scrap metal yard with him in Vermont last summer. Or was it the summer before? It was blazing hot. He climbed in, around, on top of and under no less than 30 cars (and what used to be cars) mining them for parts while I wandered around behind him taking pictures. He spent over an hour wrestling a window off of a convertible. Or was it the flashing around the window that he needed? I was fine the first few hours, but I wasn't prepared for the elements. I was dying of thirst. The sun was relentless, and in the shade where the trees, weeds, and vines grew up through the cars themselves, the mosquitoes were even more relentless. At one point I couldn't even find my Dad he was so lost in the car sauce, loving every single minute of it. The only reason we eventually left was because of my begging. And there may have been some whining. We paid for our scraps, and then we got some ice cream. When we got home, we jumped in the lake. It was a great day.
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