The Junkyard

The flame danced with the shadows.

The words danced with the page.

Everything swayed in time.

The rhythm of the universe dancing around me.

I was eleven.

A boy. Tussled hair.

My couch, also my bed, wedged close to the wood-burning stove; keeping the front and middle room warm.

The kitchen and the bathroom heated by the stovetop.

No electricity.

The cold darkness circling the house, swirling around the heat of the stove, around the light of the candle.

I was reading, the words flickering and dancing in the candlelight.

I read about danger. I read about darkness.

I read about heroes. I read about survival.

I pretended I was a hero, I pretended the darkness was my danger.

It was an adventure, it was magical.

But I knew I was safe. I knew it was pretend.

My mother was in the next room.

Quietly weeping.

Knowing it was not pretend.

-

Our backyard was No Man’s Land, a dusty, pitted, bit of hard soil that separated the house from a junkyard filled with the old rusted frames of long forgotten cars. The house, sagging and collapsing, was patiently waiting to be claimed by the junkyard, to finally lose the war to time.

As do we all.

As soon as we moved, the house was condemned, officially joining the yard of forgotten junk.

But it was our home. We lived on the teetering edge of life and collapse.

As do we all.

During the early Summer, once the cold of Winter was a memory, I’d scurry across No Man’s Land and find the hollowed out corpse of a car, settling on the best spot of shade, the spot where the rusted roof still guarded from the heat.

I’d settle in, usually putting my feet on the dashboard and my back against what was left of vinyl seats. Coordination was key in this, springs jutting through the worn surface could quickly dig into the untrained back.

With comfort attained, I’d open whatever book I had checked out from the library and read. I wouldn’t be in a car, I wouldn’t be in a junkyard, I wouldn’t even be in Saint Joseph, Missouri. I would be on planes, on islands, in castles. I would travel to so many unknowable places, places that could only be colored by my imagination. Places that wouldn’t dream of rusty cars, drooping houses, or junkyards.

Once Summer progressed, once the heat surpassed the protection of simple shade, I would leave the rust and settle in at a worn table at the library.

I still remember the walk, still remember the smell of air conditioning and aged paper as you entered the library.

The librarians would smile and welcome me, welcome the scruffy haired boy in worn clothing to their place of work.

I would read here for hours, visiting the same places, the same people; taking a literary tour of the universe. There was nowhere I couldn’t visit. It was all within a quick search through the dewey decimal system.

My mom worked, I read. We would meet back in the darkness of an unpaid electrical bill and have dinner.

Usually bean based.

Then I would read while the candles danced.

I didn’t know poverty, or rather I didn’t realize there was an option beyond it. This was life. I loved my mother, she loved me. I had books. I was happy.

But I remember hearing her cry at night.

I didn’t understand as a child. Now I do.

It makes me love her all the more.

And, looking back, the library saved me with its books.

Not only did the building give me shelter from the Midwest heat, it showed me a truth, it showed me an empathy, it showed me a commonality.

The stories housed in this sanctuary were fantastical, they were adventurous, they were foreign.

But they were also relatable, they were encouraging.

I was too young to understand it, but to find these stories of people that were so far removed from my reality, to find people battling dragons, braving the wild with only a hatchet, standing up to unimaginable evil only to win again and again, was the comfort and encouragement that allowed me to become who I am.

No matter the plot, whether caring for your two dogs on a farm, watching your father defend a black man in court, or living in a condemned home with no electricity, there was more commonality than differences. Being human, as vastly different as it can be, is fundamentally the same.

And to read the continued success, the continual triumph over struggle was life-saving for me.

For all the seemingly cursed events that would prove to follow our family around, I knew triumph was a possibility. I knew that good was more powerful than evil, I knew it would always get better.

Books taught me this.

My Mother showed me this.