Scrapbook Memories

Even after writing about 32 of these columns, I’m pleased to report that I can still pull some nuggets from my scrap-memory mine, including the following four recollections.
   Poker Players: As a young reporter for the Daily Metal Reporter, one of my first assignments was to attend a meeting of the Empire Metal Merchants Association, a New York City group whose members were in the nonferrous scrap metal business. At the time—now more than 50 years ago—the organization was flourishing.
   Armed with my pen and pad—the tools of my journalistic profession—I stepped warily into the world of scrap dealers, traders, brokers, and consumers. If I was expecting to hear an important speech about metals or come up with a big story, I was due for disappointment. The attendees’ main interest, it seemed to me, was to get through the meeting as quickly as possible so as to get on with their poker game.
   How was I to learn about the scrap trade? Well, I sat through quite a few poker sessions that season—as a spectator—and I learned plenty, not only about poker but also the ins-and-outs of the scrap business. I learned that if I kept my ears open, I could learn about Berry, Ebony, and Honey—even during poker games.
   That spring, the Empire Metal Merchants Association held its annual banquet at the Old Roumanian, a venerable restaurant on the Lower East Side. For the gala occasion, my wife purchased a new and fancy hat, a sort of Easter bonnet. All dolled up, she accompanied me to the restaurant.
   As fate would have it, an old waiter tottered over to our table, inadvertently tipping his tray that carried a gravy boat. Whoosh! A splash of gravy landed on my wife’s fancy new hat. You can bet that was the last time she attended one of the group’s banquets.
   Despite that messy incident, I can’t help but look back fondly on my experiences with the Empire Metal Merchants Association. Through that group, I received a basic education about the scrap industry. If I didn’t hear any memorable speeches at the group’s meetings—how could I among the clatter of dishes, the noisy conversations, the shouts of “Sit down!”?—I did learn when and how to keep my cards close to the vest and when, like any good trader, to take chances.
   Among the Missing: Sometimes, people with whom I discussed the fate of various metal markets on one day suddenly vanished into thin air the next day.
   That, it seems, is what happened to Gennady Romanov, whom I met early in the 1990s just as the Soviet Union was beginning its traumatic changes. Gennady, who worked for Amtorg, the Russian commercial outfit, was a charming and intelligent man—and an acute student of the metal markets. I met him at a Copper Club reception, and he showed great interest in the recycling of scrap metals.
   I was struck by the paradox of his name—Romanov—which had an ironic ring for a citizen of the Soviet Union. Working for Amtorg in those days meant that you were also at the beck and call of the Soviet government. While things were beginning to crack in Moscow (we didn’t yet fully know what was going on), people like Gennady, I assume, had to readily answer to their bosses at home. Yet he was—or at least gave the impression—of being somewhat independent.
   I was startled to see him at the next ReMA annual convention, greeting me like an old friend and taking in the equipment exhibit with awe and respect. In the following months, he called me several times to discuss the outlook for copper and aluminum.
   I visited him once at his Broadway address and was surprised at the expanse of his office. Another day, I tried to call him, only to discover that he had moved his office to a new and more restricted address. Several months later, he disappeared.
   I have neither seen nor heard from him since. I assume he returned to his country during its seminal period of change. I hope the new Russia found a spot for Gennady. Certainly, as a global exporter of copper, aluminum, and nickel, Russia could use the services of someone so expert and well-acquainted with metals in its newfound free-enterprise system.
   At Pearl Harbor: Sometimes it pays to have friends in high places.
Col. Arthur Buswell was a top official with the Defense Supply Agency (DSA) in Washington, D.C., when I met him. The government sales committee of the National Association of Recycling Industries (NARI)—chaired by the late scrap industry legend Mack Cottler—had a number of meetings with DSA and, through those meetings, I got to know Buswell quite well.
   I learned that Buswell was a gentleman and a scholar, with a keen understanding of the metals industries. He came to some of NARI’s conventions and meetings, listened to our members’ complaints and recommendations, and worked patiently over the years to develop a reasonable sales policy that would be fair to the government as well as scrap bidders.
   As happens with the military, Buswell was eventually shifted to another assignment, this time in Hawaii. That year, it just so happened that NARI had a meeting in Hawaii that I was fortunate enough to attend. I got in touch with Buswell to invite him to our session, and he came. Talking with him afterward, I mentioned my desire to visit Pearl Harbor. “Let me take care of your trip,” the colonel said. That trip—forever etched in my memory—was a special one reserved for VIPs, not for ordinary guys like me.
   Because of Buswell’s arrangements, we received personal attention and were taken places and shown things I would never have seen. I recall standing at the doomed ship Arizona as the guide recounted the terrible ordeal of Dec. 7, 1941. It was an unforgettable experience that has stayed with me all these years, and I owe it all to Col. Buswell. Thanks to him, I not only got to see the spirit of Pearl Harbor, I also got to feel it.
   Pumping Gas: Warren Rosenfeld, president of nonferrous scrap recycler Calbag Metals Co. (Portland, Ore.), is well-known for running a savvy company and for his knowledge of the scrap business. But when I think of Warren, I think of him as one of the nicest guys I was ever lucky enough to meet. Why? Therein hangs a tale.
   During the famous, or rather infamous, oil shortage of the 1970s, when U.S. motorists were lining up at gas stations across the country to feed their thirsty automobiles, my wife and I had the incredible nerve to take a car trip through the Pacific Northwest. My aim was to discover the beauty of Oregon and Washington.
   I drove into Portland and called Victor Rosenfeld, Warren’s father, only to find he had just been released from the hospital. On my visit to see how he was doing, I ran into Jake Farber of Alpert & Alpert Iron & Metal Inc., who had traveled from Los Angeles to see his old friend. That night, we all—Jake, Victor and his wife, Warren, and my wife and I—went out to dinner.
At dinner, I asked Warren where I could gas up the next day before lighting out. It would be Sunday, and I assumed some of the gas stations would be closed. “Come to the scrap yard,” Warren said, “and I’ll take care of you.”
   So, on Sunday in the eerie quiet of the day, we drove to Calbag’s facility. Not only did we get a tour of the operation, but Warren personally filled our car with gas and gave us directions so we could continue our memorable trip.
   Even 30 years later, I doff my hat to Warren for that act of generosity, performed without fanfare and with the genuine kindness that marks the man. •