Junkyard Angel

She's a junkyard angel and she always gives me bread
Well, if I go down dyin', you know she’s bound to put a blanket on my bed.
From A Buick 6 —Bob Dylan

If I buy a newspaper and don’t read it, I feel guilty. At the very least, I’ll recycle it or wrap my garbage in it.

I don’t want to be part of a throw away culture that produces mountains of waste—a pampered society where nobody fixes anything anymore.

Face it—occupations such as appliance repairmen have largely disappeared because it’s easier and cheaper to buy a new flat screen TV than fix an old one.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a Luddite. I just hate waste.

So, now that you know what I'm about, you can see why I like to spend the odd day scouring the Toronto waterfront finding treasures in what others throw away—that’s my hobby and my passion.

My vocation is teaching archeology at the University of Toronto.

Ironically, my work takes me places where I sift through the middens of ancient cultures and see what I can recover from their garbage.

I guess if I had to sum up my life’s calling in a few words, I’d say, I redeem junk.

And, that’s how I met Faith Docherty, who’s just like me, but fishing in a different pond.

“Does that thing work?”

I look up from my metal detecting to see an attractive woman in her thirties staring at me.

“Sure,” I smile, “We use it on archeological digs to turn up coins, ax heads and all kinds of jewelry.”

“You’re an archeologist?”

“Allan Walker,” I say extending my hand, “I teach at U of T.”

“Faith Docherty,” she replies, clasping my hand in a surprisingly firm handshake, “I’m the chaplain at the Salvation Army shelter on Jarvis Street.”

“Really?”

She’s beautiful—long blond hair and huge hazel eyes. My pulse is racing just looking at her.

“Really,” she snickers, amused by my surprise.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, “you just don’t fit the image of what a chaplain should look like.”

She tilts her head to one side coquettishly and teases, “You don’t look like a staid academic to me either.”

I feel a complete fool. The color’s rising up my neck.

“Sorry, I guess that was a stupid remark.”

“Not at all,” she laughs, “I’m flattered.”

I glance around at the rocky beach where we we’re standing and wonder what she’s doing walking alone in such a desolate place.

She seems to read my mind.

“I’m scavenging too, I guess.”

“Looking for shells?” I say ironically, making oblique reference to the quasi industrial wasteland where we’re standing.

“Nothing that exotic.”

“No—then what?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for tiny windows of hope—that’s what I call them.”

We’re standing beside a retaining wall, so I sit down on the ledge and she sits beside me.

“Windows of hope, eh? Sounds poetic.”

“Oh, believe me—if you knew my work, you wouldn’t say that—it’s anything but.”

I’m intrigued—whether by the girl or by her work—I can’t say and don’t care. All I know is she’s totally captivating.

“Would you like to see what I found today?”

Her eyes light up. “I’d love to.”

I dump my backpack onto the stone ledge.

“Oh!” she exclaims, seeing the array of trinkets.

“Do you like any of them?” I ask.

She immediately reaches for a copper WWI medal.

“Ooh, this is lovely. What is it? It looks like an angel.”

“That is the Victory Medal issued by the British Empire after the War.”

“It reminds me of the winged cherub guarding the gates of Eden—See, her left arm is extended as if she’s banishing Adam and Eve.”

“You have an active imagination,” I smile. “It’s actually the winged goddess Victory—she’s got an olive branch in her other hand.”

“Yes, of course—I’m sure the cherub in the Garden wouldn’t be offering Adam and Eve an olive branch—but, I still like my interpretation.”

“Each to his own,” I deadpan.

“The Great War For Civilisation / 1914-1919,” she reads, “and, look—it’s surrounded by a laurel leaf.”

“The usual symbol for victory,” I explain, “often given to Olympic athletes in ancient Greece.”

“How fitting.”

I can see she’s fascinated by it. “Would you like to have it?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she says.

“No, really—I want you to have it.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. Embarrassed, she turns away, brushing it aside with her hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, Faith.”

“No, it’s not that,” she adds hastily, “It’s something else—you’d probably think it’s silly.”

“Try me.”

She hesitates, as if gauging my depth, and then makes up her mind.

“I found this boy sleeping on a subway grate—it was below zero and he was wearing sandals, of all things. I wanted him to come back to the shelter, but he refused. So, I got a blanket and covered him.”

I shake my head slowly, “That’s sad.”

“He showed up the next day and returned the blanket. We got to talking and I found out he was an addict—homeless and abandoned by his folks. He was so full of anger and pride.”

“We’re you able to help him?’

“Not at first. He told me nobody wanted him—said he was just a throw away person. I got angry and said, “You’re God’s creation, Toby—and God doesn’t make junk.”

I blink. I can see fire in those hazel eyes and strength in the set of her jaw.

“It took about six months, but he’s finally off crack. He’s been clean for two months now.”

“That’s wonderful, Faith.”

“I wanted to give him something—but not something store-bought—they don’t value that Hallmark trash. I often come down here and find little curios—a colored stone, a coin—whatever. Then, I build a story around it—to inspire them, I guess.”

“So, this medal is going to be his Victory Medal?”

“That’s right. It’s going to be his tiny little window of hope.”

Faith and I meet regularly now and go scavenging together. Whatever we find, she uses as tokens to encourage and inspire.

I was wrong—I thought no one fixes anything any more—but clearly, I was mistaken.

I now have another avocation—fishing for dreams.

We’re kind of alike, Faith and I—scouring the streets to find treasures.

We don’t find acres of diamonds—but we find more important things.

And I think she’s helped me find myself.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


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