March is diametrically opposed to September; thus, we have the same intense and direct sunlight without the benefit of foliage. The general effect is drab and even ugly as bits of trash and other things that we would rather not see are spotlighted. This is the best time to study the landscape and to search for treasures in the field corners and overgrown fencerows.

The long shadows of winter and the foliage of spring and summer usually obscure the remnant of an old road and river ford visible from my studio. In March, however, despite some newer excavation, a beaver dam and several feral ducks swimming about, the road appears—as if by magic—though it has been there all along. As I look deeper into the woods, an old apple tree contrasts itself with the taller trees and brush by its dense horizontal growth. Maybe, in a month or so, I'll chance to see it in bloom.

Looking to the fencerows and other overgrown areas with the unaided eye, one can easily find old farm implements, trucks and so forth. With medium strength binoculars, one can see old porcelain electric fence insulators and subtle irregularities in the ground that may hold caches of old bottles. With the aid of a West Virginia Opera Glass (a high-powered rifle scope with the rifle's firing mechanism removed), one might see the sunken remains of an old sawmill and eighteenth century survey markers as well as the first crops of skunk cabbage and backyard nudists.

Edgar, the black gentleman who hauled away scrap metal in Belle Meade, New Jersey during the 1960s, would appear in the month of March, one of the earliest signs of spring.

After having wintered in a modest working class neighborhood in Trenton, Edgar would scout the countryside for junked cars and abandoned farm machinery. His sharp eyes peered from beneath his greasy railroad engineer's cap through the two-piece windshield of his 1948 Chevrolet “Advanced Design” dump truck. He would make a mental note of each piece and its location so as to arrange for its removal when the fields and farm lanes would dry enough to become passable.

It was rumored that Edgar carried a few ounces of German shrapnel around with him and could thus feel the presence of metal. Whether this was true or not is a story lost to the ages, but Edgar could reach into a pile of rotting leaves and loose loam and pull out a piece of old farm junk that had gone unnoticed for generations.

To the delight of many local boys, it was discovered that old automobile radiators, batteries, starters and generators could be sold at the local scrap yard for a hefty sum. Edgar would look under the hood of an old junker, see these items missing, and declare:

“The cream is gone—yes sir, the cream is gone.”

This, of course, meant that Edgar had to concentrate on volume. Considering that he usually worked alone and used a truck with a top speed of about 40 miles per hour, Edgar moved a very impressive number of old cars in a day. How he loaded cars onto his dump truck was especially interesting and entertaining to watch.

After chaining to the car and dragging it out of the fencerow, he wold lower the truck's tailgate, back up beside the car and raise the dump bed. And old, dented and muddy refrigerator would come tumbling out onto the ground. With the bed still in the raised position, he would then back the truck up to the front of the car and attach a chain from the tailgate to the car's front bumper.

Edgar would then lower the bed which would, in turn, raise the front of the car. The old refrigerator would then be placed under the car and the chain removed. Pulling ahead, he would raise the bed and then back the tailgate under the raised car. He would again lower the bed. The car would come with it and thus be halfway loaded. Edgar would back the whole shebang into a tree, pushing the car farther onto the truck—then off to Trenton he would go.

There was no room left on the truck for the refrigerator after a car was loaded, so Edgar would make a special trip to retrieve it after the last car was loaded. The refrigerator became a sort of calling card. A visiting neighbor might notice it and the churned-up soil and say, “Oh, I see that you've got Edgar working here. Would you send him over to my place when he's done?”

Edgar even worked his way into our vocabulary. My older cousins were always critical of my fifty dollar automobile acquisitions. “Pull out the radiator, call Edgar, and be done with it” was one taught. Later, referring to my latest purchase, it became “Looks like another Edgar to me.” (I still use fifty dollar vehicles, my current work truck being one example. After visiting Beverly Hills and seeing many such trucks in regular use by local tradesmen, I feel no shame—perhaps I even feel a bit of pride instead.)

Today, the countryside abounds with scrap haulers, though their methods may not be as creative as Edgar's were. The price of scrap metal is good right now and we're experiencing a cleanup of junk such as has not been seen since World War II.

Surely, much of what we see abandoned in the fields needs to be recycled. However, a small number of cars, trucks, and other machines made during the first half of the last century remains there. As you let the scrap guys clean up your place, consider whether you really want the steel of old prosperity to become disposable something-or-others or part of the superstructure of a “super store.”

To destroy these relics of the fading Greatest Generation would be like crushing Stonehenge in order to make asphalt for a Burger King drive-thru. Leave the old iron to rest and find its own way back into the earth from which it was mined—as you get older, you'll be glad that you did. You'll likely find yourself visiting it from time to time, remembering those people, places, and times that it represents—all gone. You might begin to wonder if, like them—and like this old iron—you may belong to the past as well.

To read more about junk spotting in the countryside, see “Iron In the Fencerow.”

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© 2002 tedkalvitis@yahoo.com