Lucky was a junkyard dog – brought home just before we brought home the eldest.  By the time we brought her home, he was our soldier, protector of the house and those within it.  But as a junkyard dog and the concerns that led mom to buy us a book on how to train a dog, we had a few concerns over the manner he’d react to an infant. We set her in her crib, and he went under it, and stayed there until we pulled her out again. He never stopped looking out for her from that day forward:

He nearly ripped a man’s throat out as we walked, as Ari toddled down the street and he approached – the man reached over to pat her on the head: Lucky went into attack mode.

There was the time she was playing on the front lawn, bouncing around while Lucky sat in the old Ford pickup, and the neighbor kid failed to catch a ball tossed his direction.  It rolled across the lawn and to the little dip between our property and the next; the boy jogged over to retrieve it.  The dog rocketed through the window and stood right above the ball, bared his teeth and let the child know he’d not approach it. He didn’t go after the kid, just held position and let him know not to advance.

But the thing about Lucky – he was a soldier: He followed his commands – not with the man walking down the street. He did not like that man at all, but otherwise. So when we told him to shut it down, he let little Kevin get his ball.

Lucky was, by far, the smartest dog that’s ever joined the family.  An absolute, 100 percent guard dog that turned it off with a command, that loved to play, loved to sunbathe with his too-long tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and he loved going for a car ride.

We stumbled on an old suburban at the junkyard, that was the blue the same as ours, the year as ours – more smashed than ours, at least at the point at which we parted.

Unlike the hound that never sits and never stops whining when we drive, Lucky would sit in a seat and just observe all that passed. Or, stick his head out the window and let that long tongue waggle in the wind.  It’s funny, because as different as they are, the current hound and Lucky would have likely been a perfect pair – the companion and guidance the hound has longed for since we got him.

Instead, he got our golden – maybe an omega. Unlike the hound and Lucky, Riley hated riding in the car – he used to puke, and would lie flat, happy to scramble out upon arrival.  He nevertheless, did go on many rides in the old Suburban, several times a summer going camping, and many times that number, going to the parks.

Getting rid of that old boat was a poor decision, and we’ve never had anything since to adequately replace it: Largely stuffing into mini-vans, that, while at the time more reliable, have never had the same utility, and a certain drain on enthusiasm held for driving.  But at the time it needed work, and we needed something that we could count on to travel distance.  So it went…

Such thought processes are likely what lead many of the discards to the junkyard, but sometimes we’ll cross a vehicle and can’t get our heads around why it would end there.

A Z in decent condition, both inside and out.

The old guy said, “It’s a rot box.” I said i’d take it, anyhow. He said it makes the lot, it’s done forever.

Another of the incomprehensible: Old MR2.

Obviously needs work, but so much potential.

The yard was something, back in the day – several years ago.  A sight to see, first thing in the morning as the sun was rising, as dew still clung and mist softened the metal hulks.  You entered through a dingy shack, and exited that through piled tires that led to the littered yard, the gravel road with a giant hole gouged in the middle.  Back then, we’d get what we were after almost every time we entered.

But now, it’s fancy. Now, we enter through automatic, sliding doors, the floors are spotless and we check in and check out at an orderly counter. The old, gravel road’s been replaced by pristine concrete, and more times than not we walk away without the part we came for.

People camp on facebook and hit the front clip of any malibu arriving within an hour.  It’s the same for many parts, such as mirrors for the silverados/suburbans/tahoes. A couple times we’ve had to claim a part, as others poke into a vehicle we’re working: It’s so far been respectful – just an inquiry, and then usually a note to disappointment – but they move along to hunt another car.

There’s also competition for the cranes: We pulled an engine for the Subaru, and as we were, as the crane was idle while we struggled to extract it, another down the aisle approached and inquired to our intentions. He sort of smirked at our struggles, and, as he was after what we had, he lent a hand – explained, “There’s two pins down at the bottom. Ya need something to wedge it open.”

We wedged, and dropped the engine in a bucket. Considering the load as i tried to turn it, I asked – I said to him, “You think we can carry this out?”

The man laughed. He lifted the engine with one hand and said, “I can.  You probably ought to have them open the gate.” Between the two of us, we struggled to get the engine from the bucket to the tailgate…

There’s a lot of interesting people, a lot of interesting vehicles – old Corvairs. Sometimes you open up a car and some of the life that was lived within them hasn’t fully left, and you can be struck with what had been: An old doll left wedged beneath a seat. A pack of Newports in the console. Old tapes, books; receipts.

Sometimes you open up the door to a vehicle that’s been smashed to crap, charred out front end and air bags deployed and you find personal affects left behind in a hurry. Or a collection on a window, left behind, and you stop to think about what it meant – almost hear the voices: An argument that it shouldn’t have been, reluctant consent, then – “I’m gonna add another sticker on the window.”

It’s sometimes eerie to open up a door and feel the impression of lives still echo. Especially to look inside a blue Suburban and find my own.