Thurman and my grandma live together in a postwar, one-story house a block from the Cheyenne Municipal Airport. And I imagine it's remained largely unchanged since they bought it back in the 50s. It certainly hasn't changed since I was a kid. An orange velour sofa in the basement matches the orange berber carpet, and the walls are the appropriately paneled in wood. A VCR and a tape of Wayne's World, which I imagine belonged to my mom or her brother, sit underneath family photos that haven't been updated since the turn of the millennium. The laundry room features a functioning laundry chute, whose origin is in a dark wood cabinet in the kitchen; the floor, a smooth, pebbled surface that's always ice cold to the touch. But the most unique room in the house by far is Thurman's tractor room.
The Tractor Room is a sanctuary devoted to all that bleeds green and yellow (sorry Case fans, I know there's an apparent tractor/farm machinery rivalry that itself rivals the Ford versus Chevy group). He spends much of the day sitting in his throne, a 1980s-era brown corduroy recliner, watching over his 10-by-10 kingdom until he's called for dinner. Surrounding him are myriad tributes to John Deere greats: scale models, John Deere wallpaper, lamps, coin banks, curtains, even a sofa love seat with a collage of great John Deere tractors. The tractor room is Thurman's domain at home, but it's downright pithy compared to the treasure trove across town.
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"I don't like that newfangled thing," he says, wagging a finger towards the roundabout that's coming up. My dad, brother, and me are riding with Thurman in my grandma's old Taurus. It's her form of compromise; Thurm refused to quit driving, so she made him at least give up his truck for a less damage-inducing, purple-interior, 70,000 mile Taurus, bought new in 1995. "It helps so much with traffic on the weekends," my grandma told us of the traffic device, but Thurman's mind was made up, and we cut through the parking lot of the Veteran's hospital to avoid it.
"These people have no idea what traffic means; come to Atlanta, she's got a white knuckle on her purse the whole time."--my dad, on the last time she came to visit us.
The roundabout was deemed an evil in these parts, like income taxes and Obama, so instead we cut through the parking lot of the Veteran's hospital, clipping a curb on the way in. We slowly wound through the parking lot, which was shaded by mature trees. Thurman uttered something along the lines of "I remember when they first built this place; gone to shit now 'a course. Then we cut back on to the main road.
Travelling down East Pershing, my brother and I exchanged glances that were part nervousness, but mostly cruel humor aimed at my dad. Thurm would slowly drift from side to side in his lane as my brother and I made unspoken wagers about whether or not my dad was going to mention how perilously close he was getting to other cars. Unfortunately, this game was short-lived, since everywhere you'd possibly want to go in Cheyenne is within a three-mile radius.
There are many names for the land we were about to set foot upon. Most relatives and close family call the place "Thurman's Junkyard." Gentler versions include: "Thurman's Treasure Trove," his "collection," and my personal favorite, which I've also coined, "Thurman's Folly."
An unassuming location, on the eastern outskirts of town where the land quickly turns to plains, is by design, as is the lack luster, ambiguous curb appeal. Fences are overgrown to the point of opacity, and an impossibly narrow dirt tract goes into an immediate uphill dog-leg, effectively obscuring any chance of peeking. Daring to poke around an area of this nature in rural Wyoming, for reasons needless to mention, is not advised.
But we're safe in the silver Taurus. We climb slowly up the hill, stopping just before the gate. It's mandatory practice to recognize the freshly-painted plows that line the road leading to the entrance of Thurman's Folly. After we've adequately admired the three-year-old paint jobs, we're allowed access to a collection that's easily within the top five "most eclectic arrangements of items in Wyoming."
You'd be best to heed the various "no trespassing" signs too. This vast property, scattered with everything from Ford Bronco's to an entire interior and signage for a Taco John's restaurant, is not uninhabited. Perched on a high terraced hill at the center is the house where a good portion of my extended family lives. Gaylen, along with his wife, several kids, and two Mastiffs roam around and blend incredibly well into the surrounding scenery.
These mastiffs greet us with enthusiasm--we're with the right company, thankfully. Gaylen speaks quickly and quietly when he does speak, which is rare, but makes you listen closely each time he does.
I remember coming out here as a young kid, probably around ten years old. My only clear memory was the sheer amount of cars and scrap metal laying around. Luckily, I kept myself from asking if I could smash a window. Now, the number of cars, probably around 50 is staggering, given only that this is a collection of cars from Thurman's immediate family. There are only a handful of outsiders, and each car tells a story. Each one is also, unfortunately, wasting away in the brutal Wyoming winters.
The cars range from a 1905 Overland, to a 1967 Mercury Cougar, along with a Series I Bronco, various Model A and T Fords, a Nash Rambler, a Ford Galaxie 500, and a handful of 80s Subaru wagons. Oh, also an original Willys Jeep.
One of the photographs in the album shows an unsmiling Thurm in front of the Willys. It's navy blue, with his name stenciled in white letters on the side and two Allstate insurance stickers on the back from when he brought it home. Now it sits inside a crowded garage on the property, alongside other family cars. As I stand in the garage, I can't help but think how much of a gold mine this would be for the American Pickers. The cars may be common and in poor shape, but the value is in the "smalls," little items like hubcaps, chairs, old advertising materials, and ancient pedal cars; not to mention the various hand-painted wooden signs, which would now qualify as "folk art," and a highly-sought-after visible gas pump.
Selling this stuff has been a constant family conversation. According to Gaylen, Thurm has finally started letting him sell some things, but the problem lies in condition and, ultimately, rarity too. Most of the cars are now part of the landscape. Tall grass grows up through the engine bays and rust adorns the roofs and hoods of most of the classic American iron.
We're only allowed to go inside two of the many mobile homes used exclusively for storage. Outbuildings range in size from outhouse to combine harvester shed. Every door is guarded with multiple padlocks and Thurm possesses a set of keys that would make any high school janitor flush with contempt.
It's clear that the first trailer has no unifying theme. He's brought us inside to show us a display case about four feet high and seven across. He flips a switch on the side, which then sets the trays inside in motion. The intricacy of this machine quickly becomes apparent. Each velvet-lined shelf is packed with tools, door hardware, and other metal odds-and-ends. No two trays are the same, and the cycle continues for a couple minutes, the clearances between trays and the sides of the case that everything inside appears to be floating. Then, he kills the power and shuffles us out quickly, I'm guessing before we've seen too much.
Other trailers, though, do have unifying themes. One is packed full of just bowling balls. An auction purchase made years ago when a bowling alley in town closed its doors. That's how Thurm's gotten most of the miscellaneous portions of his collection. Similarly, there's another trailer dedicated to sewing machines.
For all of the old stuff, few in the family believe Thurman's collection holds much value, except, of course, for one aspect: tractors.
The John Deere room back home might look silly, adorned in various gift shop wares, but discounting its kitsch would be ignoring a monumental clue.
Scattered throughout Thurman's Folly, you'll find tractors. Farm equipment is a huge theme of his collection. An enormous grain thresher has become part of the landscape. Ancient grain tillers and pumps litter the ground in between John Deere tractors of every imaginable vintage up to turn-of-the-century. Everything's mired in beautiful primer and rust patina, and every vertical exhaust pipe is protected by a plastic mailbox. Official tractor count? Several dozen, at least.
He has to have plans to restore this stuff. Or at least, at one point he did. But now, what happens? Each new trip to the yard yields a new addition to the collection. A trailer piled with scrap metal, a Frontier oil sign, pieces of the old rail station tower. Rather than shrinking, the pile is growing larger by the day.
Thurman's days are mostly spent confined to his chair in the tractor room. He visits the yard once or twice a week now. I like to imagine he goes in there and sits up on one of his tractor's, or maybe hangs out in the garage, just looking at his things. When he's not out there, he probably stares at the walls of his tractor room still dreaming, still thinking about what he's going to find next.
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