The Scrap Yard

In the years leading up to WW2, my Uncle Irving bought junk.  Out of commission machinery, steel shelving from abandoned warehouses, roll up metal shutters that once protected businesses, all were organized and stored and then sold to the government not that many years later when ships and planes were being built at a furious pace.  

He was alternately proud and embarrassed by his success selling junk.  His younger and only brother was a doctor, still married to his first wife, and much admired by his 6 sisters.  On our tour of his building he told my parents, in Yiddish, from shit you make money.  

He was my favorite uncle.

Today, I spent a lot of time with Uncle Irving on my shoulder, perusing this establishment:

in an attempt to rectify this situation at the entrance to my neighborhood:    

Not-Kathy volunteered her nascent welding skills if I'd supply the materials, so off we drove this morning to one of her Happy Places.  While she measured and figured and hefted, 

I looked down at the path, a mixture of gravel and small metal bearings and nuts and bolts.

There were bins of small stuff

and acres

 

and acres

 

of big stuff. 

Some of the small stuff was welded into big stuff.

We imagined planters and sculptures as we walked further into the yard and saw potential path lights

and colored possible almost anythings.

There were, of course, junk yard dogs, two frisky, non-threatening, medium sized beasts, who circled us once then moved on.  And, there were chickens.

Not-Kathy took my HOA's $9.13 worth of scrap metal

and created this adjustable support system

 for the no-longer-drooping vegetation:

I have very talented friends.