21 Massey

       (Note to readers:  The following description contains explicit language and may not be appropriate for all audiences.  Reader discretion is advised.)

Pictures courtesy of Shawn.

Pictures courtesy of the same old gum thumb.

     “Oh crap, corruption, hellfire, damnation and shit!”

      The words rang out in the heat of the July afternoon.  For a moment, the only other sound was the rustling of wheat heads in the hot breeze.

     Stunned shock soon gave way to muffled snickers and feet shuffling through the wheat stubble as we stepped around the green 1950 Ford pickup to see what caused a totally unprecedented burst of profanity.  

      We knew the main cause—a 1940-ish 21 Massey Harris combine.  But what in particular?  As far as we knew, the old “bitch” was nearly back together after a nearly-two day breakdown. 

     Dad bought the combine from George Warwick, the salesman at the local John Deere store.  It runs in my mind he paid $800, a phenomenal amount in the fifties.  He had taken a job “custom cutting” for a neighbor, Willie Suchanek, to help pay the bill. 

     The combine sat in a wheat field north of Willie’s “shed” on “the section”, about two miles north and one west of our farm.  Adding to the usual harvest pressure, mainly fear of ruinous hail, was an audience of idled “truck” drivers waiting for the combine to be repaired so they could get back into action of hauling the wheat. 

      The “truck fleet” consisted of two 1950 Ford pickups, our green one and L. M.’s black one, and Willie’s Dodge pickup. L. M. was Willie’s hired man.  If memory serves me correctly, L. M. had a grain bin or two in his South Limon back yard where Willie was storing his wheat.  

      The pickups all had wooden grain sides anchored in the stake holes of their metal sides.  The Fords would easily hold two dumps from the old Massey’s thirty bushel grain tank.  But Willie never wanted more than 50 bushels dumped on his Dodge. 

     If they were hauling to a grain bin, Willie had an auger to lift the grain up into the bin.  But the pickups didn’t have hoists, so the driver had to shovel 2/3 of the load off the back of the pickup and into the auger. 

     If they were hauling to the elevator, the driver pulled the pickup front wheels onto the thick planks of the hoist and got out.  Thick cables lifted the hoist, front wheels of the pickup and all,  until all the wheat slid out of the box.  Much easier than going to the grain bin, but not without risk.  Once in a while a pickup would roll off the raised hoist.  Plus you could get stuck in a long line of pickups and trucks waiting to dum p their loads.  In such a case, the combine could be sitting in the field with a full grain bin waiting to unload.

       But not in this case.  The combine breakdown had idled the hauling crew.  I don’t remember what exactly had to be repaired, but it seems many parts had to come off to get to the part that needed to be replaced.  Very little if anything on the Massey was accessible.  Even checking the engine oil required a trip under the feeder house and negotiating an array of axle, I-beams, drive shafts, etc. to get a hand on the dipstick.  Then you had to raise the dipstick through the maze, trying not to get any of the ubiquitous chaff or dust on it or into the engine when returning the dipstick.

      There was a cross shaft at the back of the Massey that had pulleys on either end.  To get it off and on, you had to drop elevators and auger pans and a few other things.  Reassembly always is much more difficult than disassembly.  When you take off enough bolts, things will just fall apart.  Getting parts back into position, getting bolt holes aligned, bolts inserted, washers in place, and nut started takes time patience and skill.  Dad had expended his patience.

      We had never heard our father use such profanity before.  The shaft was in place, all the parts back together and tightened down.  When he went to put the pulley on the end of the shaft, Dad came to the inescapable conclusion that the shaft was installed wrong-end-to.

     It all had to be done over again.

     Bear in mind that it was a time when Clark Gable, aka Rhett Butler, was still shocking Midwestern audiences with his final words in “Gone with the Wind.”  By today’s standards, Dad’s outburst would be considered mild profanity indeed.  Would that that was the worst thing you hear on the silver screen, your laptop, or smart phone.  But his words shocked us.  And amused us.

      They wouldn’t be the last profane words the Massey provoked.

To be continued