Harvest 2019

      “Nineteen percent?”  The girl affirmed, but she probed the load again.  The results were the same.

      I was a bit incredulous.  There was 150 bushels of too-wet wheat, I knew.  But there was 360 bushels of very dry wheat from last year, too.

      I inched into the elevator and went around to the back of the truck to watch as the manager periodically dipped a one-gallon bucket into the grain flowing from the tailgate.  His test of that sampling brought the moisture down to about 14%, but it was still too wet.  I got docked.

      The wet wheat had been cut Sunday.  I cut another 75 bushels on Tuesday.  This time, we took a peanut butter jar full of wheat to the tester.  The girl said 15% moisture.  Still too wet. 

      Twenty-four hours later, the peanut butter jar held wheat that tested 11% moisture.  Really?  “What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours.”

      I still had 75 bushels of the 15% moisture wheat on the truck, so I dumped three combine bins full onto the wetter wheat.  We started hauling to the bin.  I forgot I had dumped the 15% load on the truck.  I put three more dumps on the truck, plus a little more, because the truck didn’t look full.  So harvest began on Wednesday, July 17.

      On Thursday morning, we took the truck to town.  The moisture content was quite acceptable.  The surprise came when I looked at the weight results.  I had 580 bushels on, about an 80-bushel overload.

       In addition to the miscalculation I made when loading the truck, the wheat weighed 62 pounds per bushel, which means the same volume of wheat weighed more than the standard of 60 pounds per bushel.  So far the truck has survived the overload.  I vowed to do better.

      Meanwhile, the old GMC made many trips to the bin carrying 150-bushel loads.  The wheat flowed, but the acres reluctantly disappeared.  Ground speed was slow.  Every 20-25 minutes, the combine would dump a 75-bushel load.

      On Saturday, the bin was full.  Decision time:  haul to town and accept a lower price, or rent a neighbor’s bin and hope for a higher organic price.  The negatives:  I don’t have the equipment to empty Jack’s bin.  Jack’s bin is in rather tight quarters, hard to maneuver trucks, especially the semis that will probably haul it out of there.

           Jack’s bin has a pit with a 16-foot tube leading down into the bottom of the pit.  My bin-unloading auger is 15 feet.  I opted to use Jack’s bin.  So Saturday afternoon, we moved the tractor and auger down there.  The weather was threatening, so I decided to cut wheat while I could and dump it on the big truck, which had stood idle the whole time we were dumping into our bin.

      On Sunday morning, Brother John and I took the GMC on its first trip approximately six miles to Jack’s bin.  We sat up the auger and the first grain landed in the pit.  It would take a while to fill that pit with the 150-bushel loads. 

      While we were filling our bin, John could take the two combine dumps to the bin and be back in time to take the combine’s load without me having to wait.  But making the 12-mile round trip took time.  I dumped one and sometimes two bin loads on the big truck while he was making the trip.

       The GMC gas gauge no longer works.  John ran out of gas twice.  The first time, the Goodwife came to his rescue.  He called her using cell phones.  That would not have worked in 1947, when the truck was new.  The gas gauge worked then.

      John came to his own rescue the second time he ran out of gas, using the 2-gallon can of gas he carried in the cab with him, along with his tools.  Fortunately, there was little need for the tools.

      On Tuesday morning and Wednesday morning, we dumped 500-bushel loads into Jack’s bin.  The pit filled up and the wheat climbed up the wall of the bin.

      On Wednesday afternoon, John hauled 35 bushels to the bin, and the organic portion of the crop was harvested.  We finished up Wednesday afternoon, July 27, by cutting the “buffer zones”, that 35-foot strip bordering land not under my control, where forbidden chemicals could be used and might drift or leach onto my field.  There are two zones on this field, the border with the neighbors to the north, and around wind generator number 119 standing in that field plus the road leading to it. 

      What was left of the buffer zones (the 19% moisture load had come from the buffer zones, too) netted 150 bushels.  John hauled that to town Thursday morning, and the wheat is all in the bin plus the 150 bushels on the big truck to be used for seed this fall.

      The header went back to its resting place in the barn on Friday afternoon.  The combine proper sits in the shed, partially cleaned, where it can’t get wet if it should decide to rain, and I can finish the job soon.

In the bdginning

Almost done 

One of many trips up the dusty trail

Can't see the ground between rows 

All done!

      We had only one mechanical breakdown that required much time to fix.  The new part, asickle-drive ball joint, took a day to be delivered from Denver to Flagler.  A part salvaged from a neighbor's derelict combine took a couple of hours to change out and got us through the rest of harvest.  

      All-in-all, it was a very successful and trouble-free harvest.  We should have Thanksgiving in July!

     

The Duck That Didn’t

      It’s a backyard mystery.  It all began one warm afternoon when I dug out the lawn mower and began sprucing up the back yard.

      I didn’t startle when a bird flew up.  I saw no bird at all, but when I mowed an inch or two into the mint, I saw the gap.  Then I saw the nest full of eggs, right up against the foundation in the thick of the mint patch.

      I summoned the Goodwife to take a gander.  What senseless bird would build a nest in a fenced  backyard?  It about had to be a duck, judging from the egg size.  There are no chickens running around.  Too small for turkey eggs, even if we had turkeys in the area.

     Tradition has it that ducklings have to be led to water not too long after they are hatched.  How did the egg-layer plan on doing that?  Scenes of neighbors trying to herd a mama duck with a train of ducklings across the cul-de-sac through the neighbor’s gate to the lake in their backyard began to from in my head.

     I finished mowing the backyard and moved to the front yard.  When I finished with it, I took the mower back and checked on the nest on my way to the shed.  Eggs there, but nobody tending them.  Probably been abandoned, I thought.

       I didn’t spend much time worrying about it.  I took off for the farm and pretty much forgot about the nest in the mint.  But back from the farm some days later, when I walked into the house towards the back door, I was greeted with a sign:

       The Goodwife had kept an eye on the nest, and found it indeed had an incubator in full attendance.  

      I tiptoed through the backyard so as not to disturb the expectant mother.  I even carefully placed a ladder where I could get some elevation and get a camera shot.  Later, we found we could get right up next to her without frightening her off her eggs.  You have to look carefully.  She is camouflaged well.  The blank spot on the foundation without any mint growing is the marker.

     Things went along for three weeks.  The duck would leave the eggs along towards evening.  The eggs were no longer visible.  Instead, you saw a circle of down.  It could have been baby ducklings, except it never moved.  There were still eggs under the down.

      I was gone to the farm again when the Goodwife reported that the duck was gone and so were the eggs.  What happened to them?  We speculated.

     Did the eggs hatch and the mama duck led the babies off?  No, because we would have heard them.  Youth cannot keep still.  Besides, how would they get out of the yard?

      Did the duck move her eggs to a place of safety?  Ducks can’t haul eggs.  She would have had to hire two men with a truck, or something similar.

       The Goodwife spotted four feathers in the  yard near the nest.  Had something devoured the mama duck and the nest contents?  Well, maybe, and there is a nasty raccoon in the area who haunts the backyard at night.  It uses the roof of our smaller shed for a latrine.

     The raccoon theory is the most believable.  Except, if a raccoon raided the nest and had a breakfast of duck eggs, where are the shells and the mess that should attend such a raid?  The mint around the nest remains undisturbed.  Could the raccoon have committed kidnapping and murder without crushing down some mint around the scene?

     It’s a cold case now.  I think CSI-Loveland won’t have the time to devote to the case.  I think it will have to remain a mystery forever.

      The sign near the back door is gone, gone with the duck.  Our visions of being foster parents to a family of quackers have disappeared as well.  On the flip side, I can do my backyard chores now without the worry of disturbing a wild creature.  Well, not too wild.

      I did disturb my domestic partner, by planting two tomatoes in the middle of the backyard, not too far from the mint and its mysterious and abandoned nest.  “Right in the middle?” she asked.  But there was nothing growing there but weeds, my response.

      In the first two or three shovelsful of dirt as I prepared to transplant the tomato plant, I struck a sprinkler head.  No big deal because that circuit had been abandoned before we moved  in.  Had I been trying to find that sprinkler head, however, I would have dug holes all over the backyard and never hit it.  There it is, right next to the tomato.

     On a sadder note, Hemi the Cat returned to his ancestors this past week.  Attempts to relieve him of his pain and restore some life to him were unsuccessful.  He was 14.        

    

Memorial Weekend, 2019

Genoa Alumni Meeting

      Genoa has its alumni gathering on Memorial Day weekend every other year.  It's a collection of old folks who gathered.  We aren't adding any new ones.

     Laurel arranged for alumni to tour the old Tower west of Genoa.  We were among the first to arrive at the Tower.  There were all kinds of signs, "No Trespassing,"  "Keep Out", etc.  I was a bit nervous about entering, but who should walk out the door but Patty Calhoun.  

      If you have ever watched Colorado Public Television, you may have seen Patty.  She is the editor (or is publisher?) of Westword.   She is on Colorado Inside Out on Friday nights.  I relaxed.  Patty and two others bought the Tower and are trying to preserve and restore it.  

     They thought they could give it to the historical society, but the society declined, unless an endowment came with it, which it didn't.  Now, they are looking for financing to help with the expensive and labor-intensive project.  

      Many of the attendees had worked for Jerry Chubbuck.  Our two hostesses were eager to hear stories the former employees had to tell.  I was able to add my bit.  Somebody said something about holding dances there.  I said that Uncle Walter said you had to be careful or you would slide off the slanty stage.

       Patty wanted to know when that was.  I said it was probably in the thirties, but I wasn't sure.  She said that they would have to revisit one of their theories about what caused the stage to slant.  Apparently, it was built that way.

  

      Probably not six states (See Six States!), but the view is impressive.

     

     Those folks have their work cut out for them.
     We finished the day at the cemetery, doing our duty for past generations.  We had to hurry as the weather threatened.

      I'm sorry to report that the flowers were all artificial this year.  The pre-storm gale against which  we strove managed to de-blossom some of the plastic flowers.  I think the real things would not have stood much of a chance.  We will do better next year.

Gordon Leadfoot

    His name was Gordon right enough.  But not Leadfoot.  That was a moniker I bestowed upon him.  It had nothing to do with his musical abilities.

     He had one good eye, and one not so good, as in legally blind in that eye.  He wore pop bottle lenses for glasses, for both eyes, the good one included.

     He was from Oklahoma.  He eschewed being called an “Okie”.  I never saw him get angry.  But if you called him an Okie, he would hasten to correct you.  He was an Oklahoman.    

     He stood about 5’6”. He probably weighed 200 pounds.  On roller skates, he was anything but lead-footed.  Backwards, forwards, tight circles, he could do nearly anything on roller skates.

      At the local swimming pool, he could put on an exhibition on the diving board.  He had played college football.  He was that good of an athlete.

     He once ran a foot race against one of his eighth grade students, for maybe forty or fifty yards.  He won handily.  There had been a bet.  The student had to stop wearing colored glasses in the school building as a result of losing the race to a ”short, fat, old man.”

     I got to know him the summer of 1972.  I signed on to help him move alfalfa bales one June day.  We were on a county road in his pickup.  He was taking me somewhere to get a tractor with a loader.  He was driving.

     We were doing sixty miles an hour on the gravel.  Gordon decided his glasses needed cleaning.  He took them of and started in on them with his handkerchief.  We were headed north, still doing 60 mph.   In an instant, we were in the west ditch, still going 60 mph.

      “What’s goin’ on here?” Gordon asked.  He put his glasses back on.  “Oh.”  He pulled the pickup out of the ditch and back on the road.  He never let up on the gas pedal.  I had made an instantaneous grab for whatever I could get a hold of to survive the inevitable rollover.

      He looked at me and I looked at him.  He went on with our conversation, as though nothing had happened.  I made a mental note:  don’t ever get into a vehicle this guy is driving.

     The lead-foot moniker didn’t come about then.  It would be many years later when Tisha and I rode to an out-of-town football game with Uncle Bill in his hot Red Dodge.  On the way home, somewhere east of Colby, Bill managed to overtake Gordon driving his big old Ford.

      The race was on.  Bill knew a shortcut through Colby.  When we pulled up to the stop sign at the highway that would be the final 30-mile stretch home, Gordon’s Ford blew past us.  We tailed him for several miles, both cars doing 80 to 90 miles per hour.

     Finally, we reached a flat stretch with no traffic coming our way.  Bill floor boarded the Dodge, the turbo kicked in, and we soared past the 100 mile per hour mark.  As we went past Gordon, I could hear the Ford’s exhaust pipe shrieking and I knew Gordon had his foot “in the carburetor” as thy used to say in those olden days.  The big old Ford just didn’t have any more to give. 

     (Someday there will be a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Old Automobiles and Bill and Gordon will both be enshrined in the Hall of Infamy.)

     The Dodge won the race, but we all won in that nobody got killed that night on the way home from a football game.  Then it was I named Gordon, Gordon Leadfoot.

      Gordon was always a farmer at heart.  He quit teaching to try farming full time.   But the 1980’s were a huge disaster for farmers, many who had mortgaged heavily to buy land after the explosion of grain prices following Nixon’s grain deal with the Russians in the 1970’s.  Gordon had to return to teaching.

      He returned to, or took up, school bus driving when he went back to teaching.  I advised my girls, “Don’t get on any bus Mr. C. is driving, if you can help it.”   Of course, they couldn’t help it.  They were on a bus or two that lost a little paint as a result of Gordon’s driving.  Gordon’s driving was a bit of a joke among the students riding his bus. 

     But I am happy to report that nobody ever suffered an injury as a result of Gordon’s driving.  I am sorry to report that Gordon is gone now.  Oklahoma’s loss was Kansas’s gain.  I am glad I got to know Gordon, leadfoot and all.  Adieu, friend.

          

       

The Siding Project

     About a year ago now, it hailed.  

    Then began the lengthy process of notifying the insurance company, scheduling with the adjuster, waiting to see how much the company would pay, if anything.

      The roof was okay.  The metal roof suffered a bit of “cosmetic damage” the adjuster said.  Before the company would pay anything, the roof had to suffer damage so severe that it would leak.  That was okay.  After all, hail--proofing the roof was one reason to put the metal roof up in the first place. 

     The poor old vinyl siding took in the shorts yet again.  It would be the fourth application for the north and west sides of the house since the vinyl first covered the old cedar in the 1980’s.

In July, a check for some $30K arrived. 

      I was somewhat taken aback at the size of the check.  Until I started looking for a siding contractor.  It was also time to hail—proof the siding.  Vinyl wasn’t going to do it.  I also decided that this project, though not as daunting as the roof project, was one I wouldn’t try to do myself.

      Then began the task of finding a contractor that would do the job.  The first one I contacted would not send a crew out so far in the boonies to do a siding job.  They would, however, send out a crew to replace the rain gutter system. 

      Finally, one company sent out a salesman from Colorado Springs.  He measured and took photos.  His estimate, arriving a couple of days later, was over $50K.  A bit much, I thought.  We dickered for a while. 

     They offered a vinyl product that was supposed to be more hail—tolerant, but the price was very little less than the James Hardie product.  I wasn’t willing to pay that amount, so I kept on looking.

     The rain gutter guy was local.  When he came to measure for that job, he recommended a local contractor.  By the time the local siding guy came out, looked, estimated, we were into Fall.  He said he could get started in December, and he did get started.

      I made a down payment in December to cover the cost of materials.  But the job wasn’t done until January.  Still, all right, except for income tax purposes.  I had the insurance check in July, but I didn’t spend it all in 2018, so I had an augmented income without the expenses.  Oh well, the accountant said.  You will show a loss next year.

      The project went over estimate, too.  That was because the contractor didn’t plan to remove the old cedar siding, just the vinyl.  When he got to the cedar, he decided it needed to come off, too.  I concurred. 

      Then there were the south windows upstairs that Paul replaced 30 years ago.  Why he put in the undersized windows I’ll never know, but the time to change them was now, if ever we were going to do it.

      More shopping, this time window—shopping.  I tried a Loveland outfit, but after our initial conversation via telephone, I could never get a hold of the guy again.  They didn’t answer the office phone, nor the cell phone number he gave me.

     On impulse, I stopped at Lowe’s.  They had Pella windows on sale.  I ordered.  They arrived while we were tripping to Denmark, Ireland, and Iceland.  I took on the old south porch window by myself.

      I enlisted help for the upstairs ones.  The big job happened on a couple of nice days in November.

      It would be several months later before the inside work would be done.

     The siding job got mostly done in January.  The crew dodged a couple of stormy patches.  They have a few details to complete.  Spring weather and their schedule haven’t coincided yet.

      We’re good, until it hails again.