We had one full day
and two or three half days when the grain was too damp to store in the grain
bin. So we had time to get into mischief.
There were three “subjects”
of our idle-time bullying. The old
Number3 John Deere combine was the first victim. It has rested in the same place since 1967
or1968 or something like that.
The last time it
was used, we had suffered early hail damage.
Dad watched the crop “sucker out”, meaning a new bunch of heads grew on
the hail-damaged stalks. Weeds took
advantage of the late crop.
Dad used 2-4D on
the weeds, applying it with the old KB-1 International pickup with the Willie
Suchanek spray rig and a 50-gallon barrel in the bed. The 2-4D stunted but didn’t kill the weeds. We borrowed a swather from a neighbor. I was home from the harvest run, so it must
have been in August.
I swathed the 160
acres in two halves, north and south using a 2N Ford tractor and a 14’ swather. We removed the reel and sickle from the #3’s
header and mounted a pickup device which uses slats and springs to pick up a
windrow. It was a bit of work to
resurrect the old combine even then, as it hadn’t been in use for a few years
then.
We picked up one
half of that field and only had to unload on the truck a time or two. Besides wheat in the grain bin, there were
many chunks of dried weed stems about the same size as a wheat seed. It was a mess. We quit after picking up the first half.
Dad drove the
truck to town. Dick, the local elevator
man, took a sample. He stamped the weigh
slip and said, “Back it up and dump it in the cleaner.” Which he did.
By the time the trash was cleaned out, we had enough seed to plant that
fall’s crop.
The old #3 went to the section line where it
slowly tried to sink into the earth. It
survived the onslaught of the “hiders”, Uncle Ricky’s nickname for the iron
salvagers who cleaned off tons of junk from the junk yard the section line
became. He compared the iron salvagers to the
buffalo hunters who slaughtered the buffalo, skinned them and left the meat to
rot, derisively called “hiders” by those early-day environmentalists who abhorred
the wanton slaughter of the bison solely for their hides.
It took a couple
of those wet times to get the old combine unstuck. Grass and dirt grew over the sickle bar. The weights for the counter balance that
allowed the combine operator to raise and lower the header deck with some ease
were holding the oneway down.
Getting the
weights on the counter balance arm was a task.
Without the weights, the header slumped to the ground while the arm
stuck up about eight feet in the air.
Each weight is 80 pounds. Getting
the weights from the oneway to the bed of the 4X4 was a task. Getting them eight feet up and over the 3”
pipe that serves as the counterbalance arm was the first challenge.
A stepladder on
the back of the 4X4 was not the answer.
The G had to be started, the farm hand charged with enough hydraulic oil
to go up the required eight feet. The
hay fork came off and the dirt scoop went on.
The weights were
transferred to the dirt scoop. Brother
Harry accompanied the weights on their elevator and after a struggle, all eight
weights made it onto the arm. But even
with all eight weights on the arm, the header remained earthbound.
There was also
the matter of freeing the header from the dirt and grass. That was done by tile spade on an earlier
day, when we didn’t realize the counter weights were necessary to our
project. I was trying a bumper jack at
various places, so Harry got most of the shovel work.
Weights in place,
dirt and grass shoveled, the header still resisted our Revile. The Farmhand scoop went under the outside end
of the header and with a little lift, the old header sprang up into the air as
the counterbalance weights and arms came tumbling down.
The G wasn’t up to
persuading the combine out of its foot-deep tracks. We had to chain individually to all three of
the wheels and pull backwards to break it loose. Some additional shoveling was necessary in
front of the wheels.
A tug forward,
rock back, a tug forward, rock back, and finally, out she came. Meanwhile, in the west the clouds blued out
the western horizon. We removed the chain and hooked directly to the draw bar. I raced across the stubble (in first gear),
trying to get our prize to the farmyard before I got soaked.
The G decided it
had quite enough. It started running
rough about halfway across the field. By
judicious use of the choke, I coaxed it along.
Nearing the west end of the stubble and nearly home, it refused to
respond to anything. It died and refused
our resuscitation efforts.
Fortunately, the
rain didn’t amount to much. We had time
to pull the spark plugs and the battery before we got wet. The next morning we returned with clean plugs
and fully-charged battery, and the G revived and completed the trip. A little muddy spot threatened to halt the
journey, but we cleared that and the old #3 has a new resting place north of
the farmyard.
Now what? Well, if nothing else, we have a new yard
decoration, and a small piece of snow fence.
The motor is frozen from rust.
There are a few pieces missing, like the reel and the sickle. Will it run again?
We used to use the
lofty grain bin as a goal for hitting baseballs, a sort of combination
baseball-basketball game. I guess it
could be incorporated into the golf course.
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