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Junkyard Find



The area south of the Loop keeps on gentrifying,
The Red Line el before it descends under earth passes
Rows and rows of three quarter million dollar condos
For dazzling urbanites with no kids, savings, conscience,
No sense of the past, not knowing they are on the site
Of the “Cross of Gold” speech, the Everleigh Club, old
Yiddish theaters, Big Jim Colosimo’s, Hinky Dink and
Bathhouse John’s First Ward balls, Jack Johnson’s bar
Inlaid with silver dollars, and things still rattling deep
Inside my personal memory like the golden taste of
Gefilte fish at Mama Batt’s, Scurvy Miller in burlesque,
And the junkyards, the acres and acres of rusting hulks
Guarded by legendary dogs, the huge parts warehouse
Labeled Warshawsky and Warshawsky and nearby
Another yard called Original Warshawsky. I never
Knew the cause of the family quarrel, if there was one,
Nor did I ever wander Original Warshawsky’s yard,
But sometimes in my dreams I looked for a tail pipe for
A 1946 Studebaker, my first car, which rusted out and
Was patched with a too noisy corrugated flexible hose.
I am told that sometimes gold was found there: gears
For a Chrysler Airflow, a Lincoln Zephyr steering wheel.
Original Warshawsky’s could provide reanimation aids
Like Original Frankenstein, but that yard is gone forever.
I spent hours with a search engine and only found that
Warshawsky and Warshawsky had merged with big timers
And has a yard in another low-rent area and that Original
Warshawsky has left no trace except in the junkyard in
My head where it rusts but refuses to go away, just like
Old Carter Family tunes: “Lonesome Valley”, “Wildwood
Flower”, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” and the rest known
Since always, but always began some time. When I heard
Them most recently, I searched my junkyard mind: not at
Home on the family Crosley, nor the homes of kin. They
Were not broadcast in 1940 on “Grand Ol’ Opry” or on
“National Barn Dance” but on some border superstation
With a transmitter in Mexico to which we did not listen.
Then I found it in a dream, lying under more than a
Half century of rusted memories. I was six years old,
Across the street at the little Fogelsong house, watching
Fascinated as Mister Fogelsong operated his mail-order
Cigarette rolling machine, wrapping Zig Zag papers around
Duke’s Mixture or maybe Bugler, while A. P., Sara, and Maybelle
Carter sang “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” and Mrs. Fogelsong
Offered me supper if I cared to stay, and I was part of the
Circle with big brother V. K., talented artist Jimmy, and
Gene my special friend who spent nights in my back yard
Yard when we rolled ourselves in blankets like the cowboys
We imagined ourselves to be. The Fogelsongs moved
To Anadarko a couple of years later and we lost touch.
I tried to locate them today on the web, but they are
Not chronicled and there is a nearly even chance by now
They are dead except in my mind like Original Warshawsky,
But the memory, awakened by those old Carter Family songs
Is bright like the imagined tailpipe on a 1946 Studebaker.

--J. Quinn Brisben 11 MAY 2005




Scars Publications


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