“R” Project--Maybe

     “H-e-e-e-re we go again . . . .”  (Think Ray Charles.)

     Last fall, I reorganized the red barn’s contents so that I could work on a tractor last used in 1981 or ’82, the John Deere Model R.   http://50farm.blogspot.com/2017/11/

      I had three mechanical projects to get done this spring:  Stop an oil leak on the Ford tractor rear end, get the Dodge truck brakes fixed, and get started on the “R”.  Thanks to inclement weather, the Ford tractor got fixed first.  During a pretend mini-blizzard two or three weeks ago, I moved the Ford from its hibernation spot in the combine shed to the shop. 

      The shop has some insulation provided by lath and plaster on ceiling and walls.  Well, some plaster on the ceiling.  It has a tendency to fall off here and there.  The shop also has a big wood-coal stove that does a fairly good job of warming things enough to make mechanicing bearable in cold weather.

      Fixing the Ford required draining the oil from the rear end, removing the PTO shaft, and fishing around with a long-handled socket to find a one-inch nut.  The right one is barely visible through the opening left vacant by the PTO removal.  The left one is obscured by the large differential gear. 

      The nut is on a short shaft that also has a very accessible nut on the outside of the tractor.  The shaft provides the pivot anchor for the three-point hitch arm.  The shaft passes through a plate that serves to hold the oil in and the dirt out of the differential case. 

      When the nuts loosen, the plate comes away from the case and oil drips out.  The key is to loosen the nut up on the inside of the case enough to get the plate away from the case, without taking the nut off the shaft inside the tractor.  It would be nearly impossible to start the nut back onto the shaft without removing the left axle housing, a big job.

      Once the plate is away a half an inch or so, I could clean both surfaces, apply a healthy dose of silicone gasket-maker, and snug the nut enough to make the silicone bulge out all over.  That was one day’s work, getting the tractor moved and all.

     The next day, after the silicone had a chance to set, I put a hundred pounds of torque on the shaft nuts.  I refrained from adding oil for another day or two to give the silicone a chance to set up completely.  I hope it won’t leak again.

        The Ford had one other problem.  The starter “button” doesn’t work.  I have to short across the starter relay terminals to engage the starter.  The starter linkage has a safety feature that won’t allow the button to depress if the machine is in gear.  I should get the thing fixed.

      An internet search provided only used buttons, nothing new or rebuilt.  They looked pretty rusty, and pricey.  A little JB Weld to the rescue. 

      A washer is supposed to stay in a slot in the shaft of the starter button.  The washer contacts a wishbone-like lever which rocks down and forces another rod into another button on the starter relay.  The washer and slot on the starter button shaft is worn enough that the washer slips instead of forcing the wishbone lever down.  I glued the washer to the slot in the shaft.  It works, at least for now.

     Nice weather this week provided a window to work on the Dodge.  Having consulted U-Tube, I was ready to perform diagnostic procedures on the truck.  Protocol calls for stepping on the brake a few times with the engine off, to get all the vacuum out of the brake booster, which amplifies your leg muscle when you step on the brake.

      The first problem is to get the truck to start after its winter layover.  I spilled air-cleaner oil all over the engine top while looking down the carburetor throat to see if there was gas going into the carburetor.  I flooded the thing.  It dried out pretty well while I mopped up the spilled oil.  It started right up on the second attempt.

      The brakes had not healed themselves over the winter, so I followed the protocol.  With the engine off, I pumped the brake and held it down.  With the brake pedal held down, I started the engine.  If the vacuum boost is working correctly, the pedal should go down another two or three inches when the booster does its job correctly.

       Instead of going down, the pedal kicked back, like when you fire a gun and it kicks back.  Conclusion:  brake booster is faulty.  It seems to have rebelled.  It’s doing just the opposite of what it is supposed to be doing.

       I replaced the hydro-vac a few years ago.  Few?  Maybe ten years?  Maybe more?  That time, the brakes wouldn’t release.  I had to plug the vacuum line in order to move.  Then I had strictly mechanical brakes.  Now, I have mechanical brakes minus the brake booster working against me.

      It was a nice day, not a breath of air stirring, a very rare occurrence on the high plains.  The grass is young and tender.  It eases the job of rolling around under the truck.

      Removing the booster calls for removing three bolts, disconnecting two vacuum lines and two brake fluid lines.  I also had to remove the PTO shaft that runs the hoist so the booster could get out of its “compartment”.  No problem, except for the fluid lines, which drip fluid all over me as I lay under it. 

      I managed to get everything undone and the lines all plugged.  The booster came right out—and knocked over the jar I had used to catch the dripping fluid.

       Next problem, finding the brake-booster for a 1969 Dodge truck.  I loaded up the booster and headed for town.  NAPA didn’t have one in their system, but they may have found one through some other outfit.  Of course, it has to come from Chicago or somewhere.  I will pay freight plus the usual exorbitant fee for obsolete parts.  It may ship before the weekend.  If so, it will be available Monday or Tuesday.

     Clouds appeared and a few raindrops hit the windshield as I returned from the town trip.  There are twenty or so bushels of wheat still on the truck, left over from last fall’s seeding operation.  I had to move it back into the shed.  Can’t leave it outside for a week.  Just remember, no brakes at all, now.

      The emergency brake on this truck clamps down on the drive shaft rather than using the rear brakes.  I could rely on it.  Fortunately, I was able to get the old feller back into the shed without using any brakes.

      Well, I guess I’ll get to the “R” sometime.  Actually, I did get started on that project.  I hate to leave you in suspense, but stay tuned.  I’ll get around to it someday.       

Defence

     “Something there is that doesn’t love [barbwire]”to paraphrase Robert Frost. 

     The fence went up in something like 2010 in order to graze the CRP grass prior to breaking it out for farming purposes.  It also served to carry current from the farmyard to the fence a half-mile east, for the same purpose of grazing CRP grass.

     I removed all of the other fences as I began tilling the two plots.  For some reason, I left that fence.  I was probably thinking I might want to graze the east piece again someday, because it did have a good stand of clover.  I could use the remaining fence line to carry electricity again.

      I haven’t grazed anything for five or six years.  So last spring I began taking down that fence.  Initially, I used some of the posts to fence around some blue spruce that the deer were abusing.

     The fence became an annoyance.  It threw itself into the way of various and sundry plows.  Even a pickup mirror struck a fence post.  Just to name two things that didn’t love “a wall.”  Plus, grass and weeds find a solace on either side of the wire where neither plow nor mower can touch it.

      Time to “defence”.  The weather granted me a one-day window of opportunity this week.  It was a bit windy but warm enough to work outside comfortably.  (The window closed quickly--see above photo.)

      The real work was rolling up the wire.  They make machines to handle that chore, but I didn’t have one at hand.  So, roll it up the old-fashioned way.

      The handy-dandy post puller makes uprooting the steel posts a piece of cake.  The hardest part of post-pulling is carrying the post-puller from post to post.

  

     Then the posts have to be picked up and stowed.  Harness the 4X4.  It doesn’t respond to voice command, like a horse might.  You have to get in, drive a few yards, get out and pick up a post.  It doesn’t have to be fed on a daily basis, however.

      There was a nice neat stack, teepee style, of posts and wire from the removal of the other fences.  Something (the wind, no doubt) didn’t love that neat stack.  It went down into a heap.

       An hour got things neatened up a bit.

       It took two or three days to build that fence.  Driving a post is a lot of work and takes time.  It took less than six hours to remove the fence.    

The White Horse

      You don’t want to tell every story.  I remember one such story from my days as a referee.

     As part of being a registered referee, we had to attend two or three meetings for referees held during the season.  They held meetings twice a month or so, but we only had to attend two or three during the season.  The one we had to attend was the rules meeting held before the season started.

     The coaches also had to attend the rules meeting, so four or five of us loaded up and went.  When all the rules had been discussed and we departed, we made the mandatory visit to a local watering hole.  An hour or so later, in a much better mood, we started for home. 

      We were laughing and having a good time when a bright light zoomed across the sky seemingly right in our path.  There was a brief silence.  “Did you see that?” we all said. 

     We had had a drink or two.  Could we all be hallucinating the same hallucination?  Before we reached the lot where we had parked our cars a few hours before, we agreed not to say anything about what we saw.

     We abandoned our vows of silence a few short hours later.  Many folks had seen the same thing and were comparing notes the next morning at work.  The story even made the local news.  A piece of space junk burning up as it returned to earth’s atmosphere.  No need for us to keep mum.

     The white horse was seen by only one person, Uncle Ricky.  He wasn’t “Uncle” then.  He was my oldest brother.

     He was coming home late one night.  As usual, he was going hell-bent-for-election.  It must have been ’58 or’59.  He was driving his ’50 Ford with its three speed on the column and the overdrive lever below the dash on the left side.  It would go fast.  And usually did.

       He came up a rise in the road near an old homestead site, the only remnants being a few  bushes along the side of the road.  Suddenly, a white horse dashed out of the bushes and into the road in front of him.

     He hit the brakes and went into a skid.  He missed the horse and began to deal with straightening out the skid.  As he whizzed past, the horse turned into a woman wearing a white nightgown.

     As soon as he could divert his attention from avoiding a one-car accident, he looked back.  Nothing.

     I don’t remember when he told me the story.  The next day?  A few days later?  I just remember that he did tell me the story.  Who else did he tell?  I don’t know.

      Years past.  Somehow, at a family gathering, that incident came up in the presence of Uncle Walter.  When Ricky said the horse turned into a woman in a white nightgown, Uncle said, immediately, “Maria Ange”(MAW-rrree-uh) (AN-gee).  “Going across the road to do chores.”

      Uncle went on to reminisce about the Ange family, who would have been their close neighbors in the olden homestead days.  Otto, he said, would have been a good politician, worked hard for the Republican Party, but couldn’t run for office because he didn’t speak English well.  What else did he say that I don’t remember?

      I don’t remember the story ever coming up again after that gathering.  But something set me to thinking about it lately.

      Some stories are built, like a snowball, with a small nucleus that gets expanded layer by layer.  The time gap between layers of this story span years.  I can’t help but feel that there are more layers to be added.

      Why would Maria haunt the abandoned homestead site?  What would bring her back to a lonely place with only bushes to indicate that humans once lived there?  What was her story?  Why, after many years, would I think of this incident?