I grew up next to a junkyard. Not a garbage dump or a landfill, but a junkyard of old farm machinery, tractor tires and construction materials.
Sharp, rusty edges protruded at every turn. The clouded water that gathered in the hollows of the tires was alive with tiny, flexing, stick-like insects that I’ve since learned were mosquito larvae.
A huge metallic cylinder, large enough for four of us kids to slip inside and pretend we were in a space capsule or a submarine, sometimes held occupants before us, like wasp nests or mice.
There were tunnels and trails through and under the junk, with hidden entrances on the outside of the heap. I have no idea how close we came to having the whole thing collapse on top of us.
Rabbits nested and sheltered there. Rats probably did too, although I don’t remember ever seeing any. I also don’t remember encountering any snakes there.
The remains of an old flatbed truck, with the steering wheel, front seat and some gauges still intact, filled in for whatever vehicle we needed on any given day, everything from a spaceship to a PT boat to a safari rover. We battled and vanquished all sorts of villains and threats from atop that tireless rig.
The heap was also a great source of weaponry. Piston rods, shock absorbers, strange lengths of metal with a twist of the end that resembled golf clubs and other equipment parts became everything from laser rifles to swords. And, they even became golf clubs when we could find some of my friend’s dad’s lost golf balls.
A pile of old rusted junk, television- and movie-fueled imaginations, and almost unlimited time to ourselves before our moms called us in for dinner took us to uncounted worlds and situations.
