Several years ago, my friend Mike and I went on an excursion to a junk yard we were both aware of in eastern Indiana. We met early on a cold winter morn and drove the 2 hours through fog and frost. When we arrived, it was a boneyard that not only held industrial scrap and derelict machinery, but many reasonably intact Caterpillar machines. There were other brands of earth moving gear also, but our eyes were on the prize of grey or “Safety Yellow” salted with splotches of rust. When we checked in with the proprietor, we were instructed to find what we were looking for and he’d let us know the price. To be sure, our negotiating skills would be tested. Unless it was in the back of my truck, it was all worthless. Off we wandered, sometimes as a team, sometimes alone, but each find would result in an excited discussion of what it was and how we needed it.
Not in any particular need of a specific part, I was on the lookout for the vintage fender toolboxes we all lust for. Headlights with the tick-tack-toe grill and duckbill air cleaners, hopefully with an attached Ball jar were also high on the list of “wants.” Lower and louvered side panels were also desired, but were non-existent. As we picked our way between piles of junk and solitary crawlers, we slowly built a pile of our precious finds. Belt pulleys were found, usually with the paper cores rotted where they lay in the muck, but with a solid spider within, it was still worth salvage. A volume compressor for greasing the track rollers was found, but it was deemed unusable due to excessive external rust and internal moisture that had it locked up tight. Strange to say considering what the contents once were. There were some bigger treasures that would have required a well-stocked road box and a healthy forklift to extract or remove, but it was beyond our capabilities this day. As the morning wore on, the ice-covered puddles started to melt off and the muddy paths between became mushier. A detour into a few grounded trailers yielded more booty, thankfully not with a sheen of slime from the splattering of mud. Eventually, the tailgate of the pickup was loaded several feet deep with pieces and parts, all of which we were desperate to have. We drove to the office and commenced the artful discussion of how much and why the dent detracted from the value. Mud-encrusted was not a factor, it only alluded to the semblance of buried treasure. When the high finance transactions were completed, we headed home, excitedly discussing our newfound bargains and speculation for profit margins.
Upon my arrival home, these precious particles were squirrelled away on the shelves in my garage. My previous employ at UPS allowed me the skill of maximizing the space as I loaded smaller entities into the larger tool boxes. Stacked and stored securely, when I parked my truck alongside, you couldn’t even see the hoarded parts. Considering the tight quarters of my city home, the driver’s door was always on the opposite side of the shelves. The only time I could view the parts was when I pulled my truck out. As luck would have it, the ensuing years were some of my most prosperous. Unfortunately, my schedule was critical almost everyday and I was never able to exploit the trove of parts hidden on the shelf. Sure, I knew they were there and once in a while I’d delve into them to remind me of days gone by when time was abundant. However, the demands of my sole proprietorship and service on the club’s board overtook my recreational diversions. Along the way, I have since acquired additional machines which also came with their associated spare parts, some of which share shelf space with the previous batch. Thankfully, I haven’t needed to use those parts. Instead, they linger and fulfill the “authentic tools” and parts that should accompany each machine.
Fast forward a few decades and I find myself attempting to dive to the bottom of the clutter and prepare to sell the home I have lived in for these many years. For 3 days, I have been wading through accumulations of really “good stuff” that was meant for a job or the eventuality of a project I planned and had since forgotten about. Many paints, chemicals and adhesives that were stored with the best intentions have since expired and dried out. The mice that occupy every outdoor structure had set up housekeeping and managed to chew or soil lesser packaged items. Foam and plastic products have dried out or become brittle. Surprisingly, the can of Plastidip I purchased last century was opened yesterday after I heard no sounds of liquid sloshing. I was sure it would yield a cylinder of solid rubber. Guess what? Plastidip doesn’t slosh and it was as good as new. Now to use it up before it too dries out.
When I came upon my hoard of Cat fender toolboxes filled with additional trinkets of which I previously wondered where, I thought that this is akin to a vanilla filled long john. Sweet findings for the metal monster to consume. Needless to say, I am thrilled to rediscover these items which were really not lost, just ignored. The simplification of my career is at hand once this city home is sold and these harvested parts can be put to use once again. That and the challenge of a new club to participate and wrangle has created a level of excitement I relish. All of those machines that languish in the barn will see some new attention. But first, I need to get organized… sigh.
Metal Long Johns
Long Johns
