In 1900 my gramps landed in NYC and jumped a westbound train. After 2000 drunken miles, he was tossed out of the car in the high desert, miraculously landing unscathed amidst a pile of iron. The Machine Age was in high gear, and its detritus offered plenty enough for him to start a successful scrap metal concern.

Two generations later, and to my Dad’s dismay, I pocketed curious metal bits discovered in the family scrap yard. Instead of sorting them into profitable piles, I built a thought-altar. All those young creators’ dreams, forged into reality, but ending up tangled in the junk pile...