A long while ago, my washing machine died. When I took it into the repair shop, I was told that I’d be better off buying a new one. I asked them to put my machine back in the truck and left.
It had been such a good companion and done such an important job for such a long time, that I couldn’t just leave it there. So off I went, and after some time thinking and researching, I came to several conclusions.
Firstly, to fix this machine, it would cost about the same as a new one, or perhaps just a bit more, and still perhaps last longer than a new one. Secondly, according to several articles, my washing machine, being 20 years older than anything I could buy today, had many features that enabled it to do a superior job than most new ones of the same class.
I also knew that broken machines like mine are just thrown away, not recycled. I came to realize that my repair shop would make more money selling me a new one than repairing my old one and that the real business of the repair shop was not to repair machines, but to sell new ones and trash the old ones. The repair shop part of their business simply established them as experts.
Everything I learned was completely contrary to the ways that I view old stuff that doesn’t work, or that needs fixing. This perspective is shared by many, if not most, ranchers. For example, as I’ve come to know my new neighbors who moved from another part of Wyoming last year, I’ve grown to admire them for the same reason.
One day when we were going out to see the head gate of the irrigation ditch we share, we ended up in his old truck. Well, that’s what we thought we were doing, but he took advantage of having captured us in his rig to take us on a little side trip to see all his equipment. Rows and rows of it all where he’d unloaded it up behind his house.
Everything was old. Everything was patched together, either with wire or with some welding. Everything was laid out in perfect lines. He pointed to this apparatus and to that as we barely creeped along. He had a story about each piece, stopping before each one of them to tell us proudly. The head gate trip, we realized, was just an excuse to get us here.
Finally, as we finished the journey down the row of equipment, we passed a large pile of scrap metal next to his shop. He came to a stop in front of it and, as if casting a spell, he casually floated his hand over it like a bandana in the wind saying, “my junk pile.” He simultaneously looked casually over at us in a discerning, half sneaky way that made me wonder if this was really why he’d brought us over here.
I say this because as we barely rolled to a stop in front of his huge pile of old angle iron, t-posts, pieces of round stock, rebar and countless other pieces of metal, I looked at it and subconsciously compared it to my own quite large pile of scrapped stuff. This pile of old broken things was a link between us.
I keep all kinds of things like he does. In my shop I have all the tools I need to bend, reshape, drill holes, weld together in an assortment of all sizes. I also have a pile of old boards, old nails, old pieces of leather. I keep a set of pliers, a roll of wire and a selection of nuts bolts and screws to bind things together with. It goes against my nature, as it does for my neighbor, to throw anything away. Instead I try to fix it or use it to repair something else.
This way of thinking is what we were brought up with since we were kids. I’ve heard so many times from a friend: “Can’t you just throw the damn thing away?” Yes, I admit sometimes I overdo it, but it’s something that is ingrained in our sense of preservation, whether it is a deer family, a plant community, a tool, an old truck, or even a certain way of doing a job–right or wrong. It has been handed down over generations. I think it’s just a part of being a rancher.
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