Life as a youngster was never dull growing up in the backwoods of Northern Ontario.  Some families had horses or swimming pools, while others had chickens and rabbits.  There were acres of unspoiled forests to explore, tree houses to build and wildlife that sometimes came too close for comfort.

My yard was the most interesting of all.  I had dogs, cats, a swamp full of frogs to catch, and hundreds of old cars to explore.  I lived on O'Keefe's Scrap Yard, a small allotment of automobile history that was pretty well known amongst the local folks looking for cheap parts.

Hidden by an old Balsam Bow tree in my backyard was an amazingly beautiful sculpture of scrap metal, despite the damaged top which served only to collect rain water and needles from the tree. It had a driver's side door that was bent just to the point where the latch would not clasp and it simply wouldn't close. Eventually it fell off of its rusty hinges.  The all white interior, despite the windblown sands of decades past, was in remarkable condition.  Through memories and online research I've come to learn that this car was a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air, a classic so distinct even a childhood memory cannot be mistaken.

At eight years of age, many do not understand the difference between a Buick, Chevrolet or Cadillac.  Nor does an eight-year-old have any concept of what that little glass tube marked “Delco” in the box of dusty, dirty, grimy parts in the basement represents to that one special enthusiast out there.  I truly have no idea what was in that treasure trove of a scrapyard I grew up in.  There were models that ranged from the 1950s right up to the 1980s and they bore the insignias of Chevrolet, Ford, Buick, Oldsmobile and Pontiac.  Even rusting in their resting places they were works of art with their whitewall tires and their curvaceous molded steel bodies; simple details later forgotten by the assembly line as mass production for mass consumption became the new reality.

Despite the schoolyard taunts, each and every one of the kids who visited my homestead was kept busy for hours.  Busy without care or concern for being eaten alive by black-flies and mosquitoes while exploring, jumping on, and throwing rocks at the old wrecks in the yard. 

The old baby blue mini school bus with the Gulf Oil logo on it served as the ultimate fort that kept us the most occupied.  This bus, with a helping hand from someone very handy, had evolved into a camper during its roadworthy days prior to making its way to our humble abode. 

The gutted interior had been refurnished with a metal frame bolted to the floor, topped with a sheet of plywood just right for a twin-size mattress.  There was a set of old kitchen chairs situated at the fold-away table and even a custom-built port-a-john in the back.  It doubled as storage for small car parts or occasionally for bigger parts set aside for a buyer on their way to the junkyard.

There was an old box filled with black, silver, white and golden radio knobs that to a handful of kids in the middle of nowhere was the most interesting chest full of loot to pick through.  Perhaps the old bus was made even more special due to the simple fact it was not within view of our living room window, which meant it was off limits, for safety purposes, most of the time.

On the days when outside was simply not an option there was a basement that could never be fully explored.  In the basement of the half-century-old house there were boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling full of old parts, records, eight tracks and various other outdated technological oddities.  In the midst of wonders past were the practical elements of the dark and dank unfinished basement; the shallow well that went dry every summer, the furnace, the fuse box and the original cast iron wood stove complete with an ever stocked woodpile for the cold, powerless days of country life after a big storm.  Even the outer door of the basement was under an antique lock and key. 

We had an old Fridgidaire refrigerator that had been supplied when we first moved in.  It remained a fixture of the kitchen until a more modern replacement was handed down by a family member many years later.  The old Fridgidaire never did stop running; it simply changed positions as technology moved forward, moving downstairs to make use of its expertise as the old reliable “beer fridge”. 

The upgraded refrigerator has since passed its time but I'd almost be willing to bet the old Fridgidaire still runs.  Even to the untrained eye this fridge was easily distinguished as a byproduct of the auto industry.  The insignia was reminiscent of an old 50s Chevy console and it would not have been difficult to believe that the mold developed for the chrome detailing of the speedometer could have be the same mold used to add style to this home appliance.  Even the closure was a lever that was conceptually similar to a car door handle.  A little light research has provided the knowledge that General Motors began mass production of the Fridgidaire refrigerator out of its Detroit plant in 1919 and later transferred the division to its Delco Light subsidiary in Dayton, Ohio in 1921. 

Our family rented the old house that was comfortably set amidst the metal and history, and there were always uninvited guests treasure hunting throughout the year.  The four-legged members of our family served as guardians of this wondrous kingdom.  Those treasure hunters who hadn't the common decency to phone to make an appointment to browse the lot were often greeted by the unleashed golden Lab mix that wasn't too keen on strange people invading her territory.  Following close behind would be a lovely young woman to greet the unexpected visitors with a stern stare, rigid spine and a shotgun.  Granted, it was a rather strange lawn but it still boggles the mind that folks didn't consider it as part of someone's home.  Most didn't argue the concept of calling ahead after such a warm reception.  A wise explorer always knows to give fair warning of the journey and the destination for fear of crossing the mother bear protecting her cubs.

Life on the scrap yard was, in itself, an education.  It had its own vocabulary; words like catalytic converter, transmission and universal ball joint.  It had rudimentary tools and problem solving skills.  Before I knew what a hydraulic lift was I'd witnessed the changing of a motor with nothing more than hand tools, chains, a balsam lean-to, cooperation and a whole lot of elbow grease. 

The yard evolved as I grew.  Cars came and cars went away.  The old wood paneled station wagon sitting in the front yard with nothing on it left to be salvaged, one day just picked up and left.  I was only eleven or twelve years old and television couldn't compare to the scenes happening outside our living room window on the day that the magnet, the skidder, the transport trailer and the crusher came to take away the life I'd known. 

It was so exciting to watch these machines fish the old wrecks out of their places, crush them, stack them and then drive away.  Sadly the old Chevy Bel-Air under the balsam bow fell victim to this unfortunate fate.  The school bus, however, survived.  I'm not exactly sure what prompted the cleanup of the yard.  It may have been an order from the Ministry of Environment or it may have been a profitable sale of the scrap metal.  I was far too young to be included in such adult conversation.

Fifteen years has passed since life out on O'Keefe's Scrap Yard and in some ways I suppose I miss it.  There's an odd desire in each of us that draws us back to the set of our character development.  Though the opportunity doesn't arise too often I have taken a drive out past the old homestead a few times in recent years.  It's amazing just how dramatically the landscape has changed. 

Even though the yard had never been completely stripped of its contents, O'Keefe's Scrap Yard today looks like a simple farm, complete with cattle.  The pond once contaminated with an old gas tank and other rusty pieces is now cleaned of debris and provides drinking water for the creatures that live there. 

Now, if you blink you'll miss the history as you pass the landmark by. But if you pay close attention and look in past the trees you'll see my old blue bus hiding there with the new school bus that moved in to keep it company.  The setting for a child's' memories to come.

By Melissa Lefebvre

Freelance writer Melissa Lefebvre formerly a weekly arts and entertainment columnist for the North Bay Nugget, currently resides in North Bay, Ontario, Canada.  Prior to working for the daily publication Lefebvre was the Operations Manager of Tourism Radio 104.9FM, later sold and renamed Blue Sky Radio, a local FM radio station dedicated to providing tourist information to the traveling public.