The Silence of the Windmills

     Rise up and look about.  That’s what you do out on the old flat plain when you get up in the morning.  What direction will the wind blow from today? 

     In olden times, you had to search for some sort of weather vane to find the wind direction.  In these modern times, a quick glance out the window suffices.  The windmills, like sunflowers, all face the same direction.   The windmills face into the wind.

     Sunday a week ago, that early morning glance indicated zero breeze conditions.  Not a mill was turning anywhere.

       A couple of hours later, as we set out to continue the wheat harvest we had resumed only the day before, a northerly surface breeze prevailed.  Yet nary a mill turned.  Hmmm.  Highly unusual.  It doesn’t happen very often that the wind blows below and it’s calm above, and no windmills turning.

      Sure enough, the chaff and rust and dust swirled about the combine as I progressed across the field, and still no motion from the wind machinery.  A Sherlock Holmes deduction:  somebody shut the windmills off, probably to make a connection with the new substation just built.

     The stoppage lasted till Tuesday afternoon.  At night, it was just like the old days—no noise, no red lights.  You could step outside in the dark and see stars from horizon to horizon.

     By Wednesday morning, things were back to normal.  The noisy neighbors were back.  But it only takes a glance to see what direction the wind is blowing.

      2014 Harvest.  Harvest began on Thursday December 10.  A minor breakdown on Friday marred an otherwise good day.  On Saturday, everything lurched to a halt when a bearing in the combine’s clutch drive disintegrated.  Saturday evening, the cold damp weather came to roost.

     A big disadvantage of running ancient machinery is the unavailability of parts.  Bearings ordered on Monday arrived on Tuesday.  Removing an old bearing from the clutch-drive shaft destroyed a half moon key.  That key, scheduled to arrive on Wednesday morning, showed up Tuesday afternoon.  Thus it was the combine was restored to running order on Wednesday afternoon.     

      To while away the time, we broke out the old John Deere 55.  However, somehow a mouse managed to build a nest in the lower radiator hose.  Filling the radiator with water and starting the engine spread trash throughout the cooling system.  As a result, the poor old thing heated up nearly every time we started it.  It never got to the field.  But it did get a good airing, getting out of the shed for the first time since 1990.

        The weather straightened out enough that harvest cold resume on Saturday, July 19.  It ended on Monday, July 21.  Yield this year was twice last year’s (11 bushels to the acre last year, 23 bushels / acre this year).  Nothing to write home about but good enough to put in a blog, I guess.     

     This year’s crop had a good deal of black rust.  The dark spots in the stubble that look like muddy spots are really where the combine started up and dumped the rust dust that accumulated in the machine while it was stopped during unloading the grain bin.

     The job is done and the grain is in the bin.      

When It Rains It Pours

      I shouldn’t have watered the garden.

      Welcome harvest 2014.  Roll out a combine and see what happens.

    Harvest began on Thursday, with a little mud puddle in the background.

     Friday, a small breakdown was followed by a light shower.  Saturday, clouds and near-fog rolled in, so we found something else to do.

We are now a two-piano household.

  

      A good start in the wheat field Saturday afternoon when the clouds left, the sun  shone bright, and a nice breeze prevailed ended with a major breakdown.  A late shower ended repair attempts. 

      Our 80+ year-old neighbor stopped in Sunday morning to see why we weren’t cutting wheat.  He crawled under the combine and opined what we had pretty much already determined—the clutch housing had to come out.  He broke out his wrenches and we soon had that job done.

      Parts not available until Monday, so break out the old 55.  That took a while:  air tires, clean out fuel tanks, filters and lines.  Put in some fresh gas, install battery, and try to get it to start, which it eventually did with the aid of jumper cables.

     The 55 wasn’t out of the shed for 30 minutes before it got a good shower.  There will be time tomorrow to get at least one and maybe both machines running.

     There is still plenty of work to do to get the 55 field ready.  For one, it overheated while we were getting it out of the shed.  For two, the big tires are due for a change.

     But some of the crop is garnered.  The journey has begun.

       In the meantime, don’t water the garden or wash the car.  Too much temptation for Mother Nature.

4th of July

     “A series of aerial shells,” the announcer would say, or maybe “aerial bursts”.  He always sounded like he had a mouthful of cotton or dry mashed potatoes with his nose plugged up.  Sometimes you could see a shadowy figure take a few steps, extend a torch for a moment, then back away rapidly.

    Fwoomp!  Then either a breath-stopping kaboom, or maybe a less-noisy octopus would send out its short-lived colorful tentacles showering down towards the spectators, fading out well before they hit the ground.  A pause of several seconds and the process would be repeated. 

    The finale would be some kind of ground display such as a flag that would take a while to light up and then burn brightly for several seconds.

    Most years it would happen on the eve of July 4^th—July 3.  Many times it wasn’t a very happy occasion.  That first week of July often brought a hail storm that wiped out the wheat crop when I was a kid, promising another lean year ahead.

     This year, the Limon annual fireworks display took place on Saturday, July 5.  I was giving the Versatile swather its annual exercise, cutting the tall grass around the farm yard, when the Goodwife ventured out with a newspaper clipping in her hand.

 It was the schedule of events for the big weekend.  I correctly inferred that she wanted to attend the big event.  The last time we went, the 30 minute display stretched over an hour and a half as five or six firemen had to be hauled, in three separate trips, to the hospital fifteen miles away, via ambulance, to be treated for burns.  The show couldn’t go on until another ambulance was on hand, so two or three big gaps in the action gave the bleachers ample time to turn to granite. 

      This year’s show couldn’t have been more different.  It didn’t quite rival a Rockies fireworks show, but it started about 9:30 and ended before 9:45.  The announcer didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgewise.  Apparently, the firemen hired a lady consultant who helped them plan, set up, and computerize the show. 

      Dutch’s Recreation having closed some 40 years ago, we skipped the after-show beer and came home.     

      So far, we have skipped the hail storm this year, too.  Time to gird up for harvest.  Step one:  ready the grain bin.

    Three hundred feet of extension cord made it possible to use the shop vac. Not quite so much dust in the air, plus a much better job getting into the tight spots.  Next step, break out the ancient reaping equipment.

    Get the trucks out, then the swather, finally the combine.

    Only one retired occupant remains in the combine shed.  Now, a day or two of rolling around beneath the trucks, wrenches and grease gun in hand; crawling up and down combine ladders (which have grown strangely steeper and longer); attaching header, an finally, out to test the wheat.

     Sod wheat apparently ripens much earlier than “regular” wheat.

    My wheat on the right, the neighbors’ on the left.  But, it wasn’t all work and no play this week.  We visited some long-time friends.

     Of course we donned regalia appropriate to the season.