Grampa Abe was the scrap-metal king of Monroe, 
Georgia. He began with Atlanta’s rags in the 1920s, 
moved on to dry goods, then got a taste of scrap 

metal—rusted radiators, toasters, antique stoves. 
In ’47, two weeks after purchasing his first 
crashed Chevy he said, “My dance card will be filled 

with accidents”—and his world evolved to totaled sedans 
and wagons. When wealth hit in ’59 he bought a ’60 
Caddy, then belly laughed as he smashed it to sharp, shiny 

pieces, while the Jew-excluding, old-money, country-club 
barons sipped their Wild Turkey and spectated. Three years 
later he threw down the gold-embossed invite, crushing it 

with his heel, looked me in the eye and said, 
“Some day the world will be a better place.” 

Bio: Gary Grossman