From the Improvement Era, April 1943 –
Scrap Metal
By Algie Thurgood
The big, dusty door creaked tiredly on its hinges and slowly opened. With a grimace, Esther Daley pushed past her son standing in the doorway into the dusty attic.
“What a mess!” and with an “I-don’t-know-where-to-start” expression, she slumped down on an old trunk, midst a creaking of locks and a new flurry of dust.
“What a mess!” Her eyes raced quickly over the array of worn-out possessions — not new enough to use, too old to be given away.
Her son, Peter, squaring his shoulders and stretching himself to his full fourteen-year height, followed her gingerly into the room.
“What a mess is right, Mother. Why do we keep all this junk?”
“What do you mean ‘junk’? Everything in this attic your Father and I bought when we were married, or it has belonged to his family or mine.
“That trunk, there,” she continued, pointing with the toe of her shoe, “belonged to Grandpa Daley. It dates back to the Civil War — and so does this old musket.”
Peter fingered the musket with disdain, the superior attitude of youth for anything outdated playing across his features. He smiled knowingly.
“Grandpa and his musket wouldn’t stand much of a chance against today’s soldiers and an army .45, eh, Mother?”
“No, I guess not, Son; but Grandpa and his old musket tried just as hard in their way to keep our country free as your brother, Jack, is doing today, remember that.”
Esther Daley had lost the flame of defense for Grandpa with the mention of Jack’s name. Her eyes had discovered under the small window an old-fashioned metal crib. Slowly she rose to her feet, pulling her dress free from the old trunk top, and moved falteringly toward the crib.
Her eyes were strangely bright as she turned to face her son.
“You know,” her voice was tender, “this was Jack’s crib — and yours, too, remember.” It was more a statement than a question.
“It seems such a little while, now when I look at it, since Jack was in it, and me watching him with one eye while I learned the mysteries of cooking with the other.”
She paused, but her thoughts ran on: How many light-years away is Australia from a mother s heart, I wonder.
Peter had turned from the old musket and was watching his mother, wary of the gathered intensity in her face, the gleam in her tired eyes.
“He wouldn’t fit in it now, Mother he fits better in a bomber.” Peter tried to be gay.
Esther looked at her son, half in rebuke at the thoughtlessness of youth, but her voice was resigned when she answered, “I guess that’s the truth; he fits better in a bomber now. They all do — those young men this country raised to manhood with such high hopes for a future of peace and happiness — the ones marching with guns, those on the sea and in the air! So, you think Jack fits better in a bomber. Well, maybe in my heart I think so, too. …”
“Peter, wasn’t it scrap metal we came up here for? I thought those old iron beds would do. Yes, these are just a lot of junk, and we need all we can get right now. These beds are heavy, Peter; they should make enough for our share.”
Peter stood the heavy bed post down with a thud. “They didn’t say ‘our share,’ Mother; they asked for all we had.”
Esther pursed her lips prudently. “I could use that iron chest; nothing could ever be lost in it, even by fire. But, take it — I guess a wooden one will do for us!”
Then she saw the iron crib as she hadn’t seen it before at all, old and rusty and filled to the top of each peeling post with memories of her oldest son. With a determination born of love for him so far away, she pulled the crib toward the doorway.
“Take it, take it quick before I change my mind.” Esther’s cheeks were bright and warm. “And here, take Grandpa’s trunk and his old musket, too. If I can give my memories, I’ll give Grandpa’s, too.”
Then she smiled. “Somehow I’m sure he’d want me to give it.” She handed the tarnished musket to her son. “Grandpa’d never believe that twice in a lifetime that same musket would fight for America.”
“But the crib, Mother — are you sure you want me to take that?” Peter had heard so many times the stories of the crib, and he was still young enough to remember the lullabies his Mother sang to him as he lay in it.
But there was a new look on his mother’s face as she answered. “Yes, take it. It was always Jack’s crib and, as you say, he doesn’t fit in it any more — neither of you do.” She reached out her arm to her young son. “Jack fits best in a bomber, and both of you fit into my heart. So, if he gives his youth and I give my present happiness, is it more than fair that we give our past to make the future?”
Sorry; I can’t endorse this one at all. Propaganda. Once the traces of the past have been destroyed, they can’t be retrieved.
Right now I’m looking at a stack of tablecloths hand-crocheted by women whose children sold them on eBay for pennies. The cloths are pretty things to me, but they could have been so much more to the grandchildren of the women who made them, who have now lost that connection to their heritage.
Most of the scrap collected during WWII was never used for the war effort anyway.
“Most of the scrap collected during WWII was never used for the war effort anyway.”
That’s part of the irony of it. Yeah. The aluminum wasn’t the right grade for aircraft and couldn’t be made so economically. Nor could the rubber tires be effectively recycled. Etc.
What makes me cringe every time I think about it is the Japanese, on the other side, melting down copper temple bells for cartridge cases.
I often dream (really) of browsing in dusty attics; this makes me sad.
I’m with you, Ardis. But then, I come from a long, long line of packrats. The christening gown that my husband’s grandfather wore in 1897 is now gracing its fifth generation of Hutchison babies. Alas, this group will be the last to wear it. It has become far too fragile to adorn their children some day.
When we lose the family’s heirlooms, we lose much of the connection to those who left them for us.
I agree with you….and I don’t.
Destroying history is a shame, and sometimes a crime, but all things earthly have a beginning an an end. I treasure the few remembrances I have that came from my forebearers. However, keep too much and all you have is clutter; better to selectively preserve the best and recycle the rest.
True or not about the utility of the scrap, the only thing that could bring her son home intact from the global war was that war’s end. Giving up things that meant a lot to her might just have been the thing that brought him home sooner (or not), but the sacrifice would be more meaningful to her just because of how much she prized what she gave up.
Of course if the didn’t really need the scrap… oh well.
I’m with you Ardis. I relish the things belonging to my ancestors. In my living room is a round table made by my great grandfather, Samuel Smith, in his furniture shop in Logan before he moved to Centerville in 1883; a velvet jumper made by my mother, with pictures of me, my sister, and my daughter wearing it; and many wonderful pictures. In one bedroom is the sleigh bed that belonged to another great-grandpa, William H. Streeper; the homestead certificate of his mother, Matilda Wells, signed by R. B. Hayes; a cedar chest of my grandmother, Etta Smith Streeper; a large portrait of my dad’s sister, Annie LaVaun Carr, who died at age eleven. In another room I have the wooden table that was still on the back porch when the 1930 flood in Centerville took away all of Herb and Etta’s out buildings and house, except for the wall between the kitchen and the porch. I have a Blue Willow china platter that my third great grandmother brought with her from England, and I wonder how it survived the ship, railroad, and wagon to make it to the Salt Lake Valley in 1848. I know that these “things,” and other “things” in my house are just “things,” but they make me happy and they make me think of the dear people who owned them.