Scrap Metal, Steelheads and Me

This past weekend, while looking for a pastime worthy of expense for a man with dwindling caches of such allotments, I happened upon a surplus iron yard complete with wrecking ball and acres of stuff capable of withstanding the ravages of wind and weather.

Actually, a friend told me about it in terms leaving no uncertainty whatsoever as to the yard’s contents and their magical qualities to entice a man with an open mind and/or pockets. We’d recently enjoyed a meal at his place and I couldn’t help noticing that he’d replaced one entire wall of his house with a window roughly the size of Rhode Island. He said he’d purchased it at the surplus iron yard just because of the price. Now, if one walked into the rear portion of his home, he could share my friend’s bird’s-eye view of the Randolph County Medical Center. Of course, his six-foot cedar grape stake fence obscured the view of the parking lot, but it was a small price to pay for the grandeur of the second-floor operating arena and a few patient rooms, especially with the aid of the binoculars he provided his guests. For nearly twenty minutes I watched a homely old woman in a hospital gown try to eat her evening meal of mashed peas, apple sauce and butterscotch pudding before trying to sit up and grab her IV pole for a quick trip to the bathroom, ultimately summoning a nurse’s help. I hate peas her lips repeated over and over as she finished every last drop of the squamous green material hardly worthy of a poultice, much less a meal.

I needed to go see if I could find anything worthwhile at this place. Upon first glance from the road, all I saw were rusted cars and old iron roofs stacked like cordwood, extending as far as the eye could see. I wasn’t currently in the market for a ‘74 Tempo with no front end, but I decided to go inside and talk to the proprietor anyway, having driven nearly six miles out of my way to get here. I told him that my neighbor had purchased some merchandise from him and that I would like to look around if he had anything left of a non-automotive nature. He said he’d just taken a couple of acres of Washington rain forest in trade for two sections of Shawnee County mushroom pasture, and if I’d like to step into his stockroom, he’d be happy to show it to me.

Well… I certainly didn’t want to appear too eager, so I allowed as how I’d take a quick look at it, but that I was just looking around and wouldn’t be buying anything today. ‘No pressure’ his look told me, so I followed him past an old tobacco-curing barn, a few pieces of equipment that I recognized as beer duns and something that appeared to be the side of a mountain, then we walked into an area containing a forest glade that caught my eye.

As far as the eye could see was wilderness of pine trees, moss-covered granite boulders and a lush meadow with a small pond complete with cattails. On one side a stream ran swiftly past.

“Any trout in that stream?” I queried, trying not to sound too interested.

“Of course, in fact, just yesterday, one of my employees caught two rainbows and a German brown after work. The amazing part is, I know he’s a lousy fisherman.”

“How big?” Immediately, I regretted having asked. I’m sure I appeared too interested and he’d raise the price, but something about the sound of the rushing water enchanted me and lowered my defenses.

“Oh, I don’t think they were huge, probably not bigger than 22” in length of more than five or six pounds… just average-sized.”

“How much?”

“Well, we’re piecing it out, selling the waterfalls separately, of course, as well as the ferns, grass, etc., but the stream sells for $2.50 a lineal foot for the first thousand feet, but we’ll attach any added length you’d like for only $2.00 a foot. Where I come from, that’s a bargain.”

“How much for the birds?”

He hesitated for a minute, pausing to think. “Well,” he muttered, “I guess we could let ‘em go for say… oh, how about fifty cents apiece? I’ll throw in the trout at no extra expense if you don’t make me warranty the birds. I used to guarantee them until I took in some Chinese birds and ended up with the bird flu… since then I’ve sold them on an ‘as is’ basis.”

“Sounds reasonable…” I uttered stupidly, removing all doubt that I was a future customer, “what about width, how much for that? That stream looks pretty wide in spots.”

I swear I saw dollar signs in his corneas. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he replied enthusiastically, his confidence bolstered by my interest, “if you’ll take it off my hands today, I’ll throw in not only the width, but the depth as well. How does that sound? Do we have a deal?”

His hand reaching for my mine, I knew I was beaten. “Okay,” I whimpered, in a voice barely audible, “if you can deliver it to me free of charge, wrap up enough to fit on two acres and bring it out to me later this afternoon.”

While he pumped my hand with his own, he suddenly became the grand macaw, grinning and whistling, “No problem, we’ll cut it into sections and load it up on our flatbed, and I’ll check and see if we have any critters we can throw in… maybe a few deer and even a bear or two, just to make sure that you get full enjoyment out of your purchase. Would you care to look at a waterfall or box canyon while you’re here? Either one would sure dress up that stream…”

I allowed as how I was all stocked up on box canyons, but I’d take a look at a waterfall if it weren’t too expensive. We passed an enclosure filled with grizzly bears, pumas, skunks and various other large and small animals, but the smell alone discouraged me from looking closer. In a smaller container next to it was a cage marked INSECTS that I refused to enter.

So, I now have the only trout stream that I know of in Randolph County… and no mortgage to pay off, either. No, I don’t get to watch any patients out the back of my house, but my diet is now healthier, given the amount of omega-3 oil in the fresh trout that I eat.

Bob Church©6/4/07