Farm Update

        The wheat is planted and up, the hay is made.  The neighbors have proso millet windrowed ready for harvest and corn to pick, but my farm work is basically done for the year.

      I planted wheat September 6-9.  It rained nearly a half an inch on the 9^th, about three hours before I would have been finished planting.  I thought it might crust over and I might have to replant, but the wheat came through.

September 15

September 16

September 17

 

September 24

     Watching wheat grow is a little more entertaining than watching paint dry.  I finished planting on September 16.  The drills are cleaned out and stowed.  On to other chores that have been put off.

     The tumbleweeds that plagued the neighbor a year ago also made themselves unwelcome here.  They are a definite fire hazard.

  

        Ford tractor and rotary mower to the rescue.  Keep an eye on the exhaust.  Don't let the flammable  buggers get too close

      The tractor, the 830, developed the annoying habit of using oil, pushing it out the exhaust during the last few weeks.  So, apart it comes.

      The problem doesn’t seem to be with cylinder, piston or rings.  So the head is scheduled to go to the machinist this week.  I hope they will find a problem and fix it.

      A bindweed patch sprang up in the summer fallow.  I could use tractor and machine to keep it under control before I planted wheat. 

       Speaking of pests, the deer are up to their usual tricks.

      The most effective repellant is sprinkling used cooking grease, pan drippings, etc. in the branches about head height.  Unfortunately, that takes a lot of time and is not 100% effective.  It’s not a very flattering self-appraisal that I find myself agreeing with Kurtz in Heart of Darkness,  “Exterminate all the brutes,” he says.  A novel idea.

Weed Hay

     Making hay from tumbleweeds caused me to remember the 50’s and even the early 60’s when for at least a couple of years, we found ourselves approaching Fall and Winter with not enough hay to get our cattle herd through the winter.  So, we cut tumbleweeds in the wheat stubble and used it for cattle feed.

      The process was a little different then, no 30-foot swather, no big round bailer.  For some of those years, we used a five-foot horse drawn mower, drawn in this case with the “Old D” John Deere.  The sickle was driven by lugged iron wheels on the mower.  Lubrication of the pitman bearings was done by dripping oil into spring-capped oil cups filled with cotton.  The iron seat on the mower was superfluous since the operator had to sit on the tractor instead of sitting on the mower guiding the horses.

    Some time later, Dad bought a John Deere No. 5 mower, the 7 foot sickle driven by the tractor’s power takeoff shaft, and with no seat.  The “D”, lacking a PTO, was reduced to pulling the horse-drawn dump rake.

      The seat on the rake was not superfluous.  In some ways, replacing a horse with a tractor was a step backwards.  Even though the horse had been replaced by the tractor, the rake still required a rider to hold down the foot pedal that kept the rake’s tines in position to gather the hay, and to step on the trip lever that raised the rake tines and dumped the gathered hay.   With the tractor, it took two people to do the raking.

      Riding the rake wasn’t the desirable job.  It was dusty and the hold-down pedal could kick up when the rake went over uneven ground or a rake wheel dropped into a chuck hole or rut.  Your right knee was always in danger.  At high speeds (6 mph with the “D” in high gear) the rake tines could fly up and hit the bottom of the seat when you stepped on the trip pedal.  Of course, there were always insects such as flying ants and gnats to aid and abet the dust and pollen in the hay field.

     After the hay was mowed, we raked it into windrows with the dump rake.  Getting a windrow and not just a bunch of random dumps was important.  The rake operator had to step on the trip lever at just the right time so that the dump lay in line with the previous dump.

     When all the hay was raked into windrows, we went down each windrow and raked it into a series of piles.  The rake operator got a workout then.  He had to trip the dump lever frequently and even help the rake to dump by shoving down on the handle used to pull the rake tines up by hand.  The handle was designed to raise the rake tines and hold them up when “roading” the rake.

      When the hay was raked into piles, Dad would use the farmhand with the hay fork to pick up the hay and bring it to the stack, near the corral where we would keep the cattle during the winter.  He would pick up a few of the piles until the fork was full.  He would set that first forkful on the hay stubble and back away from it.  A second forkful would be deposited on top of the first, and a third forkful on top of the first two. 

      When the pile was suitably high, Dad would back away several feet from the pile, throttle up and take a run at the pile.  If all went well, the fork, back end a couple feet off the ground, front end riding on the ground, would hit the pile and come away loaded.  At just the right time, he dropped the rear end of the fork and raised the tip, then raised everything and headed for the stack without ever stopping.

     Standing on the stack, you heard the tractor throttle up, and you knew a load of hay was headed your way.

     I was too young to help with the haying before Dad bought the farmhand.  I guess you either threw loose hay onto the hayrack, or if a binder was used, threw the bundles on the hayrack and hauled them to a stack near where the cattle would be fed in the winter.

     I was old enough to stack hay hauled in with the farmhand.  I remember coming home from school, changing clothes, and heading for the haystack.  One person could easily keep up with the farmhand, depending some on how far the farmhand had to go to fetch the hay.  What I remember is a haystack with its entire length covered with piles of hay that needed to be stacked, a rather depressing proposition for a kid with a pitch fork in hand. 

     The main idea of a haystack was keeping the water out.  Moisture would cause the hay to mold and rot.  Having a neat, straight stack was secondary, but still important.  Having straight edges and square corners was not as important as having a straight vertical wall.  Slanting towards the middle of the stack would result in hay sliding down the side.  Slanting away from the center would result in the stack caving off when it got higher and heavier.  Either deformity would result in having to rebuild the stack.

      When I was still small, I remember being on the stack with my brothers.  The loaded farmhand fork approached the stack headed straight for me.  I tried to move out of the way, but the hay was still loose and my leg fell into a hole and down I went.  The hay from the fork came tumbling off and I was covered up.  It didn’t take long for me to scramble out from under the stuff.  The stackers and the tractor operator laughed as I crawled out.  I didn’t laugh.

    Usually the hay was millet and wasn’t bad to handle, no stickers or chaff.  The exception was when pig weed or red roots infested the millet.  That seed head was stickery and hard to get out of socks and cuffs.

       The weed hay was another matter.  The fire weed had a yellowish pollen that got everywhere.  Worse was the Russian thistle which had a stickerish branch that scratched any bare skin it could find.  How could an animal eat such a thing?  But they did, and apparently liked it. 

     One year, to ensure the cattle would eat those weeds, Dad bought rock salt in bags.  When a layer of the stack was complete, we would go along and scatter rock salt all over it.  A few stray pebbles from the salt bags found their way into my mouth.  Not bad.  (We used to take a few licks off of fresh salt blocks before they were put out for the cows, too.  It’s a wonder I don’t have hypertension.) The cows throve on the salted weeds.

     The most vivid memory of haying involved the horse-drawn mower coupled to the “Old D”.  It is also a painful memory.  We were mowing millet in the “field by the road.”  We had a stray dog who wandered into the farm yard one day and adopted us.  He went everywhere we went.  Somebody called him “Billy Whiskers” and the name stuck.

     Two or three of us were riding on the D, my oldest brother driving it, the others clinging to the fenders.  Billy was running along, sometimes behind us, sometimes off to one side or the other of the tractor.  As we came to the northwest corner, my brother turned the tractor.  Billy was standing in the millet where he would have been out of the way if we had kept going north, but of course we couldn’t keep going north because that millet was already down.

      So he was standing right in line with the mower when we turned east.  The sickle was invisible, being hidden by the standing millet in front of it and covered up by the cut millet as it fell, so Billy didn’t see the danger. 

    Uncle Ricky grabbed the D clutch and pulled.  It almost stopped, but a characterisitic of the old D was it didn’t stop on demand, especially when it was lightly loaded, as it was with the mower.  It made a final lurch, and Billy’s left hind leg was gone.

     Who was in a greater state of shock, Billy or us?  Billy yelped, tried to jump up on the tractor with us.  He couldn’t make it, and he was bleeding.  I’m afraid we weren’t much comfort. Taking a stray dog, even a loved pet, to the vet wasn’t a thing we even thought about.

     Eventually, Billy crept off, where, to die?  We continued on with the mowing.  What else could we do?  The next morning, Billy surprised us by showing up for breakfast as usual.  We thought for sure he would have bled to death.  But he was the same old Billy, only now he was a three-legged dog.  How long he lived after that, I can’t say for sure, only it seemed like quite a few years that we had a three-legged dog.

     The hay business came to an end in 1972 when Dad had a heart attack.  He was advised that the strain of caring for cattle during the cold winter could be fatal.  In a way, he was relieved by that advice, since dealing with cattle was never his favorite occupation.  He became a wheat-only farmer.

     For the last 40 years, the pasture has been rented by the same neighbors, and any hay that has been made in those 40 years has been put up by neighbors on shares.  Our share got sold and hauled by the buyer. 

Tumbling Tumbleweeds

     Back last October, Neighborly called.  “Say, would you mind if I mowed your stubble field?”  What?  Mow the stubble.  I didn’t have long to think about it.

     “I was coming home from town the other day when that wind hit (“that wind” was a strong southwest blast which spread east from the Rockies and went many states east before expending all its energy).  Tumbleweeds were moving all across the fields.  When I got home, there were tumbleweeds going over the top of my house.”

     “They had your house covered up”?

     “Not really.  But the yard was full of them and the wind was blowing so hard some of them were going clear up over the house roof.”  The pieces began to form a picture.  Southwest wind, tumbleweeds, my wheat stubble the source of the tumbleweeds.

     Doing things the “old way” means, after the wheat is harvested, the field is either left alone to grow whatever it will, or the field is fenced and cattle graze it. The dust storms of the dry 30’s and 50’s made farmers reluctant to till the soil after wheat harvest.  Leave ground cover to protect against erosion. 

     Having no cattle and little time for fence-building, I let the field go.  It grew Russian thistles and fire weeds, also known as kochia. The stems of these weeds become brittle after a freeze and the plant dies.  A good breeze snaps off the weed near ground level, and away it rolls, scattering its seed as it tumbles.

    Nowadays, the sprayer follows hard upon the combine, and the weeds don’t get a chance to grow in the wheat stubble.  Chemical fallow doesn’t spawn tumbleweeds.

     “There’s some nitrogen in those weeds.  Mowing them would keep them in the field,” he said.

      “Well sure, mow away.  I’m sorry you have to do that.  Send me a bill.”

     “Nah, I don’t want anything to do it.  Maybe it will help keep the weeds out of my yard.”

    “We will have to do something different next year,” I said thinking maybe I could build a fence and let some cows in on the stubble. 

     The mowing was done in a day.  Sometime later, I asked if mowing had kept the tumbleweeds out of the yard.  “Mmm, now they’re coming from the north,” was the answer.  Apparently a fellow “tiller of the ground” (ugh! following in Cain’s footsteps!) still exists to our north.

       Here it is nearly a year later, I didn’t have time to build a fence, and the weeds have flourished.  “We” will do something different this year.  This year, another neighbor will make hay out of the fireweed and Russian thistle, and any other weed that has had the temerity to raise its head above the level of the wheat stubble.

      Making hay out of weeds brought back memories of the 50’s, when the spring and summer were so dry we weren’t able to raise our usual millet crop, leaving us without hay to feed cattle during the winter.  So, we made hay out of the fire weeds and thistles.  I also remember using a pitch fork to pull weeds out of the fences as part of getting the pasture ready for spring grazing, and burning the weeds to keep them from rolling back into the fence as soon as the next breeze blows.

      But that’s a story for another day.

      Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the haymaking turned out to be a cooperation between neighbors.  I was drilling wheat when the 30-foot swather pulled into the weed field.  Neighborly called the Goodwife using his cell phone to say he was starting on the weeds.

      That was Saturday afternoon.  A little after noon on Sunday, the 160 acres were windrowed.  On Monday, Roger pulled in and went around the field once with his big round bailing machine.  Too damp yet.  The weeds needed a day or two to cure.

     Let’s see, hay on the ground, wheat freshly planted.  You can’t guess what happened next.  Rain.

      Well, there’s no satisfying a farmer.  He wants a rain when he wants it.  He wants it dry the rest of the time, especially for harvest and hay time.  Some dry weather is needed to plant, too. Plus a rain followed by sun and wind creates a “crust” on the soil surface that newly emerging seedlings can’t get through.

     However, the wheat first planted is  beginning to come up and looks good.

  It remains to be seen whether some of the later-planted wheat will need to be replanted.    At first I thought the windrowed weeds might have to be turned so they could dry enough to be bailed.  But the windrows are light and fluffy with plenty of room for air to get through.  A good breeze should render the weeds ready for bailing.

      Meanwhile, the truncated weeds should stay put.  With their tops cut off, they have lost their round shape and should find it difficult to go tumbling across the country when winter winds come howling across the plains.  “Stay!  Don’t go bothering the neighbors.”

Ag 501.327

      Theory and practice of Rodweeding

     Upper level course.   Instructor permission required.

Prerequisites:  Ag 401 Tillage Basics (Includes prerequisites for Ag 401—Ag 301A, Ag

     Psychology; Ag 303 USDA Regulations;   Ag 372, Horsepower on the Farm;  Ag 398,

     Basic Farm Mechanics)

Credit:  One hour (Includes 15 hour lab—lab fee required)

Lesson 1

     The rodweeder is one of the simplest tillage machines ever invented, rivaling the chisel in lack of complexity.  The machine runs a rod about one inch square beneath the surface of the soil which uproots the weeds, thus the name rodweeder.

     Early ag engineers (make that an inventive old farmer looking for a weed killer more efficient than a harrow and less disruptive to the soil than a plow or disk) found that to keep the rod below the surface of the soil it was necessary to turn the rod opposite to the direction of travel.

      The challenge was how to turn the rod backwards while dragging the machine forwards.  Most rodweeders harness a wheel used to carry the machine to turn the rod backwards.  One method used two gears, one driven by a shaft from a wheel, the other connected to the rod by a shaft.  The second gear is turned backwards by the first gear, a simple transmission.

     Other gear-driven methods used four gears and another shaft to connect the two sets of gears.  The gear machines drive the rod from one end of the rod.

    Most rodweeders use a roller chain to turn the shaft backwards.  This is accomplished by running a sprocket on the underside of the chain loop, which turns the sprocket backwards.

     This machine uses two chains to turn the rod.  One chain connects the double sprocket to a shaft or axle driven by both wheels (ratchets in both wheel hubs allows turning the machine without sliding wheels going at different speeds during the turn).  The other chain connects the double sprocket to a sprocket on the rod. 

      The chain can drive the rod from the middle of the rod by putting a sprocket on the rod.  The tradeoff is the sprocket on the rod goes into the soil deeper than the rod itself, and the sprocket and the drive chain have to be protected from the soil that will wear them out quickly.  Thus the boot with a chisel point on the bottom end.

    

    A problem with the boot is it leaves a bit more of a furrow than one would like to have.  An advantage of the chain drive is no universal joints are required as is the case for gear-driven varieties.  The chain drives probably take less maintenance than the gear drives.

                                  

      The rod is held in place by shanks with changeable points on the end.  A spool on the rod fits into a socket that bolts onto the replaceable point.  Spools and sockets are also replaceable.  The points are reversible.  When one side wears thin, remove the point, turn it over and remount.  The spools and sockets usually outlast the points.

    The rodweeder doesn’t take much horsepower to operate, so standard procedure is to hook two side by side.  The problem is, so that a little green trail doesn’t spring up where the two machines join, it is necessary to overlap the rods by six or eight inches.  This requires pulling one machine slightly in front of the other.

       Many rodweeders use cables to hitch to the tractor.  Cables allow offsetting the two machines.  A yoke keeps the machines from bumping into each other, or from straying too far apart.  The yoke fits loose enough to allow for the offset and for turning corners.

      Best use of the rodweeder is for preparing a seedbed for small grains such as wheat or barley.  While it uproots the unwanted vegetation, the rodweeder creates a firm seedbed suitable for small grains.

     (Note: if you found this lesson perfectly useless, you should bookmark it to be reread during a 3 a. m. attack of insomnia.  If it still proves useless, the class will have to be moved to the education department.)

Veni, Vidi, . . .

      We came, we saw, but we didn’t conquer.

     The summer raced by without a minute to stop and take a breath.  We finished harvest.  We returned to Atwood, once or twice to clean up and finish emptying the house.  What looked like this:

now looks like this: 

 

     What should have been one pickup load turned into two.

      Where to put everything?

        Without time to unload, off we went to Fort Collins to resume a search for a house.  I think Grandma would have said, "rarer than hen’s teeth."  We did make an offer on one we liked.  Someone else made a better offer, apparently.

     Soon, I think, Fort Collins will have a drawing for folks to get a house-hunting license.  You will pay a big fee if you are a lucky winner.  There will be no guarantee of getting a bag limit, let alone finding that trophy.  Sour grapes.

     Up the hill we went to visit the grandson.

  

     Another afternoon of house-hunting didn’t uncover anything worth shooting.  Back to the farm and the summer fallow.  Some of it resembled a jungle, but no houses hiding in it.

     Three days later, it’s all better.  Nearly an inch of rain pretty well guarantees a good seed bed for the soon-to-be-planted wheat.  Not all is unwell.

     We came and saw many houses, but no victory yet.  To quote the three stooges, “If at first you don’t succeed, keep on suckin’ till you DO suck a seed.”  Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck!

    

Addendum:  We may have found a house.  

  

A Trip to Hugo

    “Our Kansas license plates expire in August,” said the Goodwife. 

    So they do, and since, as of Tuesday August 12, 2014, we no longer have a Kansas address, I decided we had better do something about it. 

     A sure sign of old age is the thought that you should make as much of a trip (such as up the stairs) as you can and do everything you can while you are there.  I think the aim is to save the ever-ebbing energy. 

     The desire to make good use of a trip is one reason why a person is so easily distracted.  Trying to grasp two or three things mentally proves as difficult as it does physically.  Once I get upstairs and take care of the one or two add-ons, I forget the original purpose of the journey.  I usually end up making two trips. 

     What did I come up here for?  Mom always said when you forget something, go back to where you were when you were thinking of it.  One trip just turned into two.     

     My Synthroid supply is running low.  I need a prescription for that.  I need a new doctor.  The Goodwife needs a new doctor, especially after a Sunday visit to the ER in Kansas revealed a higher-than-healthy blood pressure.

     We did our homework.  A call to the County Clerk informed us that to license vehicles in Colorado, we needed our Kansas vehicle titles, proof of insurance, a valid driver’s license, and a verification of vehicle identification number.  The first three items on the list are to be found in the wallet, the glove compartment of each car, and the file cabinet, now conveniently accessible in the north bay of the farm garage.

      The clerk suggested either the city police or the county sheriff to get the VIN verification.  Living twelve miles from the nearest municipality, I chose to call the sheriff’s office.  I gave the dispatcher my address and cell phone number.  A deputy would be in contact with me to make an appointment to come to the farm and check the VIN numbers.

      “I had an interesting visit with the lawman,” the Goodwife said as I washed the dust from my hands and that caked onto the sunscreen covering the hairless parts of my head.

     “On the phone?” I asked.

     “No.  He was here.”

     “Already?”  I had just called in the late forenoon.  He hadn’t called me.  A look at the cell phone revealed he had called.  No chance of hearing, or feeling, the phone ring while operating the old John Deere tractor.  I began working the summer fallow that afternoon.

      “I just about missed him.  I didn’t hear him at the door.  I saw him driving out of the yard, so I called the dispatcher, and he radioed the officer, and he came back.”           

    “So did he find the VIN numbers ok?”

   “Oh yes.  He was really interested in the old cars, especially the old 4X4 and Dwighty’s car.”

    “So did you take him to the red barn?”

    “Of course.  We looked at all of them.  He likes to buy old junk cars and restore them partially.  Then he sells them to someone else who does the fancy work.”

     All of this while I was parading back and forth in the dusty summer fallow slaying weeds.

     We made appointments with the “doctor”, the PA really, for Thursday when the field work would be done.  We could get the blood pressure checked, renew a prescription, get new license plates all in one fell swoop.

     We made appointments for 9:30 Thursday.  "Come a little early to fill out the paperwork," we were advised.  We got there about 9:15.  We should have been there before 9.  Insurance information, medical history, allergies, surgeries—type and dates, releases for this and that.

      It was nearly 10 before the PA got to me.  She was very thorough, going over all the problems, family history, listening to this, to that, tapping here and there.  The Goodwife got similar treatment.  Apparently the tapping didn’t go so well as she ended up having both knees X-rayed.  Step one to the blood pressure problem: record salt usage.

      It was nearly noon when we walked out of the clinic.  I needed a haircut in the worst way.  We could go to Limon, get my haircut and eat lunch.  Which we did.

      The Goodwife visited the library while the barber uncovered my ears.  I stepped out of the barbershop and spied the front end of the car, where there was no license plate.

     Dang!  Why had we gone to Hugo in the first place?

     I reported to the library where the Goodwife was in conversation with the librarian ladies who were trying to eat their lunch.  “Do you remember why we went to Hugo?” I asked.

     “What?”  Puzzled.  “To visit the doctor.”

     “Any other reason?”  She couldn’t remember.  “License plates,”  I said.

     “Oh!”  she laughed.  What else can you do?

     During lunch at the local deli, a guy in a red shirt and a baseball cap asked how we were.  He was from Gem, Kanas, was there working for a Colby fire extinguisher company.  He recognized us from Lions Club activities.

     The story should end with our return to Hugo, purchasing license plates, installing new plates, filing papers in appropriate glove compartments, awaiting new titles arrival in the mail.

     Two miles out of Limon, I pulled to the side of the road.  “What’s wrong?” asked the Goodwife.

     “I think I forgot to bring the VIN verifications. “  After my contortions failed to retrieve the manila envelope in the back seat, the Goodwife released her seat belt and grabbed the packet.  Sure enough, titles, proofs of insurance, but no VIN forms.

     Time to call it a day.  Back to the farm we went.  I found the VIN forms buried under the junk mail on the table.  Into the manila envelope it goes.  Now where to put the envelope so I don’t lose it?

     I spent the rest of the afternoon hoeing up bowls and watering dusty dry spruce saplings.  It doesn’t take much mental alertness other than avoiding the tree stem with the hoe blade.

     A trip to Hugo is in order.  This time, I think we will try to do only one thing.  But wait!  I need to get new skylights to replace the hail-damaged ones on the big shed. .  . .   

August 1, 1965 Part II

     1965 was a flood year in Colorado.  Roads and bridges were washed out.  Deer was Trail flooded.   Cabin Creek didn’t exactly wash down the stream, but never recovered from the damage from the flood waters.  High waters washed away huge concrete pylons erected in place to support bridges and overpasses on unfinished portions of I-70 east of Denver.

      Lincoln County had its share of destroyed bridges and roads.  Every road ditch and low spot held water.  Larry and I found one of those road ditches filled with water.

     I had managed to make it about seven miles on what is now County Road 3N.  At that point, the road makes a very slight correction.  I awoke with a start when the sunflowers on the road shoulder started hitting the bumper and right fender.  My attempts to swerve left to get back on the road were futile.  The next thing was a splash and we came to a halt.  The wheels spun when I stepped on the accelerator.  Same result  when I tried reverse.

     I could have spent the rest of the night in the car.  But somehow that never occurred to me.  So, I opened the door, and the water began to creep in.  I closed the door but I already had a little water on the floor mat.  

     I had on a brand new pair of black pants, double knit with pipe stem legs like the Beatles wore.  Carefully I rolled the pants up to my knees hoping that would be high enough to be above the water.  It was.  So I stepped out of the car into the cold water—in my brand new leather shoes.  Funny I never thought about them.

      When I opened the rear door to extract Larry, he saw the water and refused to step out.  He went to the right door, so I waded around and got him out of the right door.  The water was only about six inches deep on that side.

      I don’t remember much about the trek home, except that after a couple of miles, I decided a short cut across the pasture was a better option than following the county road which would have taken us a half mile west and then a half mile back east.  I had a hard time convincing Larry to leave the road and cross the barb wire fence.  It was strange territory for him, but I knew where we were, and I prevailed.

     Arriving home, my oldest brother, who happened to be visiting, was up waiting for me.  It was past 3 a.m.  He had had enough close calls of his own to know what the possibilities were.

      I made Larry call home to inform his parents he would spend the rest of the night with us.  Later, I found out his mother wasn’t too happy having to get up to answer the phone between 3 and 4 a.m.  She was a believer in the “no news is good news” philosophy.  She thought the phone call was bad news.

      I put Larry in an empty bed where he stayed until the folks left for church Sunday morning.  He got up, refused breakfast, said goodbye and headed for home in his car.     

     There remained the problem of getting the car out of the mud puddle.  I don’t remember for sure if we tried and failed to dislodge it with our tractor, or if we decided early on it wasn’t up to the task.  The ultimate solution was to borrow the neighbor’s bigger tractor, a 500 Case.  We should have borrowed another log chain, too.

      I don’t remember how we hooked the chain to the car.  Whoever did that (did ?I) had to get down into the water to hook the chain to the frame beneath the bumper.  What I do remember is that the chain wasn’t long enough so the tractor could have both wheels on the road bed.  To make the connection, one tractor wheel was just off the shoulder of the road.  When the tractor started to pull the car, the right wheel spun, the left wheel continued forward causing an abrupt uncontrollable right turn, and the tractor was in the ditch with the car.

    I was in the car watching all this and I thought, “Oh boy.  Now we’ve got the neighbor’s tractor stuck, too.”  As I remember it, Uncle Ricky never paused or hesitated.  He kept the tractor going forward and the car began to move.  I’m sure the tractor wheels were churning up water and mud, but what I remember most was the radiator fan drawing the muddy water through the radiator and throwing it back onto the tractor.  I was glad the 500 was a diesel without spark plugs to get shorted out with the water, stalling the engine.

    We were moving and the car’s rear wheels found solid ground and then we were back up on the road.

    I think this was all done before the folks got home from church, which would have been around 1 o’clock or so.  The car was on the road with no apparent damage other than what a good cleaning would fix.  The tractor was back in its place and everybody was safe and sound.

     What else happened on August 1, 1965, I don’t recall.  Some time later when Larry and I got together, he laughed in his characteristic manner as he recalled (all that he could) about his 21^st birthday.  Then he asked me what I was doing almost three miles beyond the home place where our journey ended.

    I told him I was trying to take him home.  He paled a little then.  “Gord, you know that bridge on the road just west of our place?  That washed out.  The county never put up much of a barricade.  You never would have got me home.”

      When I recall quite a few other incidents in my young life, I think my Guardian Angel put in a lot of overtime, especially on weekends. I hope he (she?) got time-and-a-half.