Old McDonald Had a Junk Yard

Throughout my childhood I was constantly asked if I could provide fries with that shake. If I had a Big Mac squirreled away in my undies, and - lord forbid - what was in my special sauce. [That one I didn't understand until a tad later in life]. Then, inevitably, that old favorite - what happened to the farm? After all, we all know Old McDonald had a farm. Parents, teachers, friends, family - all told us this obviously indisuptable fact constantly for the first few years of our lives. Even to the point of listing out the various animals which had populated said farm. This particular chuckling remark from some of the more (or less) imaginative characters which populated my toddlerhood and adolescence generally came with a grammar lesson on vowels: e,i,e,i,o ... Not sure what happened to A EWE or WHY. Regardless of the inclusion or exclusion of "a, u, or the occasional y," I'm here to tell you - Old McDonald had a junk yard. He did not have a hamburger joint with or without clowns or Cookie Monsters. Nor did he have a farm.

Two years ago in June 2022 I took a vacation with my loving wife to the countryside around Rome, Ga. This may seem like an odd choice of vacation destination to some. No ski resorts or theme parks. No state or national parks. No grand hotel with hot tub, swimming pool, and poolside bar. It was my request, which my loving spouse accepted willingly, to visit the area where my paternal grandparents lived when I was very young: Rome, Georgia.

Armed with GPS and an address I followed digital instructions to nowhere. We meandered up and down winding country roads, kicking up dust - and red Georgia clay - until I finally found what I was looking for. Yep, you guessed it, the ramshackle, falling down old building that was once my paternal grandparent's junkyard. It didn't look like I remembered it. Big shock considering I hadn't been there in fifty-three years. I had last set foot at this place at the ripe old age of seven years.

Getting out of the SUV I had pulled up in so comfortably, I smiled to remember how my grandfather would have pulled up in an old clunker - sputtering and emitting a cloud of thick oil scented smoke. My lovely wife walked the perimeter with me, but kept a short bit of distance. She allowed me my trip down memory lane for a several minutes - wistful minutes for which I thank her.

My grandparents actually lived in that house when I was very young. It was then nestled amongst piles of old cars and furniture - beds, dressers, cabinets and car tires. Many a fine hour I spend exploring those piles of old junk with my mother's and grandmother's advice to watch for snakes and spiders lost somewhere in the midst of my adolescent imaginary adventures. I was a post apocalyptic soldier searching for parts for a water purification system. I was a visitor from another planet trying to determine how any supposedly intelligent race of sentient beings could turn their home into ... this. A rotting pile of trash. I was also Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger.

Here I played hide and seek with my two brothers and two sisters. Drank lemonade perched on an old car fender. Swung from the tire swing my grandfather had tied with a sturdy rope to an old oak tree branch. Chased lightning bugs and fought monsters.

Having circled the house, I walked up to a couple of windows to peer inside. The old stove where my Grandma McDonald would bake apple pies and cook pot roasts was there in the kitchen. I could see in the ambient sunlight that it was rusted and falling apart - but I swear I could smell the savory aromas of a hearty beef roast and the sweet frosty tang of freshly out of the oven cinnamon rolls. My mouth actually watered. So did my eyes.

Circling the crumbling remains of my grandparents past I walked up to the front steps. Unfortunately, the rotten, time worn wood did not seem safe enough to hold my weight. Of course, I no longer weighed a whopping fifty or so pounds... More like two hundred. So, at the urging of my wife, I stepped back - foregoing the chance to open the door of my past quite that far. After all, I still had a future to worry about.

Before I left I snapped a few pictures of the old place for the sake of posterity. Including the one at the top of this little story. I know nobody will ever fix up that old pile, but, to me, it still houses some of the best memories of my life.