From my third book "Oh, These Youthful Years"
The Crippled Junk Yard
As the origin of day put to rest the night,
morning dew sparkled 'neath a dawning light.
Suddenly, a movement caught my ear,
not far away, but somewhere near.
Passed a thick brush just out of sight,
with bow and arrow, I aimed to the right.
Sly as a thief, with hand held at bay,
stole forth on this unsuspecting prey.
The sound seem to elude me at every stone,
soon found myself entering territory unknown.
I came upon a cliff with a magnificent sight,
nature stretching for miles by a morning light.
I stood in awe with appreciative eyes,
of this lavish view framed with bluish skies.
Early sunlight cleared majestic treetops,
awakening a masterpiece of vivid art shops.
For all around were steep mountainsides,
defending this site from weathering tides.
God's touch reached a web of crippled cars,
twisted, rusted, and covered with scars.
All scattered around a broken-down shack,
with smoke seeping out a blackened stack.
Carrying the image of coffee, fresh and hot,
being poured from a Quaker's hanging pot.
On the front porch hung an ancient chime,
with steps that sagged from the weight of time,
and artful shutters hanging by threads,
aligning windows private with bed spreads.
This old cabin had endured cruel weather,
with the cars and trees they all fit together.
As I turned to leave, the silence gave way,
to a creaking battered door opening to day.
An old, black man emerged round and stout,
powering a vehicle with determined clout.
This chariot fatigued, worn and wobbling,
ragged and torn, the thought was troubling.
He had tucked his hair under a bright red cap,
his arms were large and round like his lap.
In stressed stirrups his deflated legs did rest.
This coach had well passed a relentless test.
This classic man had endured much strife,
paying his debts and vesting in life.
Nobly he battled the warring front steps,
knew exactly where to place his treaded footsteps.
He descended to a path of traveled scars,
which lead to the web of crippled cars.
Noticing on his side was a pouch of tools,
clanging against the warped metal spools.
Also lining the chair were his needs,
worn tools required to do his deeds.
Behind the seat twixt the crooked wheels,
a vise on a wood box chased his heels.
A noble sight with his music filling the land,
reminded me of a classic one-man band.
A hermit, to my surprise, I did know.
This was none other than Johnny "Auto"!
My father told me a story once,
of a young boy who was not a dunce.
By a drunkard's wheel upward he flew,
plunging, his life took on a terrible new.
Horrid the plight at the tender age of six,
the strongest of legs now turned to sticks.
Imprisoned within a wheeling environment,
his parents were poor and on unemployment.
A victim to the laws of no insurance,
yet he rolled on with the greatest endurance.
Johnny was unique and such a rare find,
pursued a life, leaving his troubles behind.
Things he could not do he would at least try,
his courage would bring a tear to the eye.
This lad had games to play, races to win,
and trees to climb with his best friend Ben.
Watching him serve his unjust time,
everyone knew his fate was a crime.
When he ventured out to earn a living,
found a job was something no one was giving.
Tired of their excuses for his suffering,
he worked at a garage for nearly nothing.
He did not need legs to crawl under a car.
Besides, he had the strength of a bull by far.
Motivated by pure determination,
he earned a job less discrimination.
The shack was where he learned to break bread,
a place long ago his father's homestead.
So he used his money to buy the old junks,
some without fenders and some without trunks,
some without motors and some without tires,
but they were Johnny's dreams and desires.
The junked cars were ones nobody wanted,
he even bought the ones spooky and haunted.
Tagged "Auto" for his massive collection,
each car had a history and recollection.
Johnny was a master at telling their story,
for he knew the sad and, of course, the glory.
I watched Johnny pull up to an old Matador,
he open the driver's side front and rear door.
Sliding out from where he was bound,
Johnny became one with the ground.
He then picked up his rolling compound,
folded and set it in the rear without sound.
Secured the door then tumbled to the front,
grabbing the door and seat, he let out a grunt.
As he slid behind the steering wheel,
the motor started in this classic steel.
Driving to a large oak with a plywood floor,
I began to wonder about this strange folklore.
Without the use of his legs, how did he brake?
How could he drive? Worse, was he a fake?
The regal oak had grown since time began.
It donned the deck of a resourceful man.
Spreading its limbs over Johnny's heritage.
He had trimmed it with items to gain leverage.
He built a stage just above the knees,
for a height advance in his dungarees.
Parking under a branch, he opened the door.
Then like a snake slithered to the rear once more.
Arching to strike open the rear access,
reached for his legs that were now lifeless.
Pulling his rolling treads to stable ground,
freed his feet from where they were bound.
Using the door and the chariot rail,
crammed himself into his rolling cell.
Once he was secure within his seat,
bent over and nested his legs and feet.
Closing the doors, he rolled to a tap,
grabbed a hose and hooked it to his lap.
Then moved to the oak that held his stand,
then pulled himself up to the plane by hand.
Slipping into the halter of a skilled inventor,
he attached a rope from the branch's center.
As I watched I started wondering,
"What in the world was he pondering?"
Dipping a long scrub brush into a pail,
I knew then he was going on a sail.
This was incredible, something new,
with hose and brush over the car he flew.
In amazement I sat on the cliff to watch,
this incredible acrobat missed not a splotch.
Hanging and washing like a busy spider,
he returned to the pail with turns of a glider.
The top finished, a perfect landing I saw,
then freed himself of the harness's jaw.
Safely he slipped out of his floating yoke,
then set himself down with a gentle stroke.
He lowered himself to his humble chair,
this he did with an unusual flair.
The next thing I knew, off he went,
for a pail and brush to repeat this event.
Comical he was with the water hose,
squirting himself right square in the nose.
Watching this sight I just had to laugh,
as he went on scouring the lower half.
Despite his hardship he made not a sound,
struggling boldly with his feet on wet ground.
This man was a human washing machine,
when done the dull became shiny and clean.
Powered over to another part of the yard,
he then pulled the tarp off a Ford Packard.
Crawling in and out as he worked on things,
reminded me of a spider with a fly in his strings.
This man had learned to adapt and overcome,
a natural testimony, especially to some.
Suddenly, a car drove up to the shack,
two men got out in suits of black.
Back in his chair wheeling to them,
as they in turn were walking to him.
They met each other at the shiny Matador,
then talked for minute at the driver's door.
As they praised the labor of Johnny's work,
one man reached back giving his purse a jerk.
He counted out money from his billfold,
giving it to Johnny for this car was sold.
The other man then started the motor,
a finely tuned purr flowed from the rotor.
Engaging the gear he slowly drove away,
the other shook hands to bid Johnny good day.
As the first man walked toward his car,
the second returned not going very far.
He was in a mighty rush to try to get back.
Was there something he missed or forgot to pack?
He stopped alongside Johnny's humble chair,
handed out a cane with the greatest of care.
As the two men left the crippled junk yard,
Johnny twirled his cane with a smooth regard.
In the true classic style of the Old West,
from a twirl to the rail, his cane came to rest.
Johnny's lifestyle seemed to be oppressed,
the mastery of his domain was truly expressed.
Suddenly, he pushed the right wheel forward,
as for the left he pushed it backward.
Raising the front wheels by leaning back,
he spun around right there in his track.
Traveling along on his two rear wheels,
he balanced skillfully on these two heels.
He pulled to the side of an aged, old Ford,
with a battered hood tied down with a cord.
Opening the door placed the cane inside,
a useful helper when he wanted to ride.
It was clear now how he was able to drive,
he used the cane to bring cars alive.
It was a foot to operate break or gas pedal,
to move the heaps of trashed scrap metal.
Turning, I started back in the direction I came,
pass the trees warped and bent, just the same.
A thought occurred which put me on track,
something to think about on my way back.
Like his cars, Johnny seems impeded and forgot,
but, without a doubt, disabled they're not.
Gary Swancey 1995 |
