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Lessons from the past


Junkyards and Junked Cars

Yardful of wrecked cars, via Wikimedia Commons 

I've mentioned how, during the 1940s, my father and uncle supplemented the meager income from the farm by hauling kids to a couple of one-room schools. To that end, they each had a 7-passenger Cadillac limousine from the mid-'30s, that performed double duty as both school bus and family car. It was a challenge to keep the two Cadillacs running. They put in a lot of miles over terrible roads and broken axles were common, among other problems. I doubt the Cadillac dealer was ever a source for parts, but Rosenberg's junkyard was. Rosenberg's was located in Beaver Falls, Pa., and was crammed full of row after row of junked cars. Once, Dad and Uncle Chuck, with my cousin Peg, my sister B.G. and me along, visited the yard looking for a part. Leaving the three of us kids in the car, they disappeared into the jungle of old, junked cars and ... never came back! At least that's how it seemed to us. I think B.G. started crying first, then me, while Peg, who was older, tried to keep up our spirits. Finally, even she became concerned, and we all thought something horrible had happened to our fathers. At last, here they came, proudly carrying the greasy part they'd come for and amazed that we were taking on so.

By the late 1920s, Henry Ford had sold his fifteen-millionth Model T, even while falling into number two status behind General Motors. Scrapped, junked cars were everywhere, piled up in huge junkyards, dumped into rivers and lakes, or pushed into old mines and quarries. The country was awash in junked cars. Recycling began, but it was crude and smelly, and created almost as much pollution as the cars themselves. Scrap dealers removed any parts that could be re-sold, then set the rest of the hulk on fire and burned out the upholstery, wood and rubber. The remaining metal was cut up and sold as scrap. It's easy to imagine the air, ground, and water pollution that resulted from the greasy, smelly, black smoke and the oily runoff of such an operation.

During the 1950s and '60s, the steel industry, which used a lot of scrap steel in making new steel, began demanding much purer scrap. Also, about this time, government regulations banned the open burning of junked cars, while putting heavy restrictions on the smoke from the closed furnaces that were being used for the purpose. To keep from burning, many automobile graveyards compressed a whole junk car into a block that contained high levels of lead, tin, copper and chromium, any of which negatively affected the quality of the finished steel.

The scrap industry began to explore ways to convert a junked car into small chunks of contaminant-free steel that would be suitable for making new steel. After much experimentation, Proler Steel Corp., of Houston, Texas, developed a successful shredder in 1958. Other scrap processors got into the act and many improvements were made. One of today's state of the art automobile shredders reduces a crushed car hulk into small, approximately one pound pieces, separates the ferrous from the non-ferrous metals, and removes the residue which consists of plastic, wood, glass, rubber, fabric, and dirt.

Before shredding, the salable parts of a scrapped car are removed. The fluids are drained and disposed of in an environmentally safe way. The tires and battery are removed and the car is flattened in a big hydraulic press before being hauled to the shredder. A conveyer carries the hulk into the shredder where many hammers attached to a heavy whirling rotor beat the car into pieces small enough to fall through a grate onto another conveyer belt. An air current is blown through the shredder and removes much of the light foam, plastic, dirt and fabric, which are considered waste that ends up in a landfill. The shredder output passes through a second blast of air that removes the rest of the non-metallic waste, before entering a magnetic separator. Here the steel is magnetically separated from the non-ferrous metals such as copper and aluminum, which can be sold to processors who use these materials. The steel chunks then pass through a manual inspection, where any non-metallic or non-ferrous pieces that may have slipped through are picked out. After this final inspection, the steel is shipped to the end-user, usually a mini-mill.

In the old days of steel making, huge mills took in coal and iron ore and processed these raw materials into finished steel. The open hearth furnaces then in use allowed as much as 40 to 60 percent scrap to be mixed with the raw iron, while the impurities were cooked out as slag. With the collapse of the old steel industry, steelmaking in this country has shifted to mini-mills that rely almost completely on scrap for their input. The electric furnaces in these mini-mills require small, uniformly sized pieces of scrap with a low level of impurities. This demand makes it possible, and profitable, for auto recyclers to build expensive shredding plants that may be more than 1000 feet long and cost tens of millions of dollars.

Scrap processors in the United States can harvest about a ton of usable scrap steel from each of the 13 million cars that are junked every year. This has to be one of the more successful recycling efforts, because not only are the valuable metals recovered, but the rest of the car is reduced to small pieces that take up less space in a landfill.

All this modern technology and pricey machinery is a far cry from Louie Rosenberg's old junkyard that needed only a cutting torch, a few acres of oil-soaked ground, a rickety wooden fence, and an old wooden building.

Cars at the scrapyard 

The Song of the Lazy Farmer

 

The Song of the Lazy Farmer

The Ohio Farmer, a paper published twice a month by Capper-Harman-Slocum, Inc., of Cleveland, Ohio, contained a feature called The Song of the Lazy Farmer. The author of this on-going feature, which appeared in many farm papers during the late 1940s and early ‘50s, was never identified.
 
From the December 4, 1948, issue comes this loving tribute to his long-suffering wife, Miranda:
Mirandy's life is pretty tough, she never does have time enough
To catch up on the work she's got; she keeps that broom of hers red hot,
The floors get swept four times a day and in between she works away
At scrubbin' down the basement stairs or dustin' all the front room chairs.
There's cookies, pies and bread to bake, then pans to wash and beds to make;
The rugs need beatin' now and then, each week she kills and plucks a hen.
Three times a day she keeps me fed, and after I have gone to bed
She sits beside the fire and rocks while darnin' up a pile of socks.
Whene'er I watch her rush around I always wish my health were sound
So I could help her out a bit, then she'd have time to stop and sit.
But my arthritis and lame back, my daily rheumatiz' attack
Keep me from pushin' on a broom, I couldn't finish up one room.
My sinuses and allergy keep me from dustin' too, by gee;
Why my weak stomach even kicks at those meals easiest to fix.
So, even though it makes me boil to see Mirandy work and toil,
I help by restin' quietly so she don't have to doctor me.
 
In the January 3, 1953 issue, the Lazy Farmer's song was about the New Year and that he was soon to turn 70 years old. Again he mentioned "Mirandy":
A NEW YEAR’S hung upon the wall and this time I don’t mind at all
Because, for me, this year will be a triple anniversary. For one thing, ’53
Is when I’ll reach three-score ten; though that is s’posed to be life’s span,
I feel so good I’m sure I can go on for quite a bit ‘fore my old ticker has to quit.
Then, secondly, this little song will very soon have perked along for forty years,
And though some say it shouldn’t last another day,
It’s been an awful lot of fun composing ev’ry single one.
Fin'ly and by far the most, this is the year when I can boast
That I've lived half a century beneath one woman's thumb, by gee.
Mirandy claims she doesn't know how we have ever made it go,
But it is easy to explain: I've simply stood each ache and pain
Without complaint and given smiles in payment for her wifely wiles.
I've been the world's most faithful spouse, though often she's called me a louse;
She calls me lazy, but I say she's better off with me that way
'Cause in return I've suffered loss by lettin' her pretend she's boss.
 
Then, in the May 19, 1951 issue, he waxed poetic about the merry month of May:
I don't think there is any way you could improve the month of May,
At least as far as I'm concerned, each year I'm glad when it's returned.
The pleasant smell of new-worked soil, the sight of folks at honest toil,
The green across the country-side, the late spring sun upon my hide,
The early flowers all blooming bright (and no mosquitoes yet in sight),
The shouts of happiness and joy with which each little girl and boy
Greets ending of a long school year—these things all mean the summer's near.
But best of all, May means we've got a first crop from the garden plot;
For me there's no red-letter day quite like the one when I can say,
"Mirandy, these spring onions are the best you've ever grown by far."
At gardening my wife's a whiz, I'll bet that she's the best there is;
She's got the greenest thumb around, and when she drops seed in the ground
It grows so fast you have to git out of the way or you'll be hit.
But while I gobble up the stuff she grows and never get enough,
I'm always puzzled by one thing, and that's how she finds time in spring     
To do the field work I should do and get her garden chores done too.


MY COMMUNITY


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