Adaptive Curmudgeon

I have found a literary masterpiece which will ring true to most men. Click to Front Porch Republic, you’ll be glad you did.

Some quotes to whet your appetite:

In the beginning:

“…there’s much work to do—and five secrets to keep from the Chief Eye-Roller.”

And the story begins:

“…ever since as a young boy I saw a few license plates hanging in the machine shed on my grandfather’s farm I have longed for an out-building to hang license plates in. Now I have one, and like Henry the 8th I will have no opposition. Until…”

Which leads to:

“So much for secret number five. The fourth is worse. It’s the day prior, and we’re in the car. I hand her the mail and notice, I think, a letter from an attorney’s office….”

And then:

“‘Uh-huh. And when were you going to tell me about this? Your secrets aren’t safe with you, you know’. (So much for secret number four.) ‘Right after telling you about running over the phone line with the lawn mower.’”

Which leads to:

“Probably some pasty-faced Barney Fife, first day on the job, patrolling church parking lots…”

And ends with:

“…if I would have let the mechanics do the job, it would have cost me five times that. So I’m flush. I’m a millionaire. I could buy my kids ice cream and the Clippers.”

If that doesn’t pique your interest nothing will. Read the story to fill in the blanks.

The Constitution Of The United States

The Declaration Of Independence

Last spring I found a wasp nest on my lawn. It was just a small hole in the ground but it obviously had significant size beneath. Wasps came and went at a  steady pace. I’m not an entomologist so I don’t know what species of wasp, only that they weren’t bees. In my world view, bees are helpful creatures that pollinate and make honey while wasps are just assholes. Ever read up on how wasps breed? Those suckers are the creature from Alien.

Even so, I coexisted just fine with the growing menace. I walked past it several times a week. The wasps would be coming and going from their little hole and I’d stride by carefully. Neither stupidly standing on their hole nor fleeing in terror. They didn’t hassle me. I didn’t bother them.

Eventually, as summer heat got going, the wasps got more numerous and far more aggressive. They started buzzing me threateningly whenever I was in the vicinity.

They’d started threatening me, on my land, when I’d done nothing to them… it was time to kill them all.

See how that works? Put up with plenty and don’t cause waves. But once something gets in your face and threatens you with harm it’s time accept the nature of your opposition and, if necessary, destroy them. Foreign policy doesn’t have to be complex.

One afternoon I sauntered up with a can of wasp spray and blasted down the hole. Get off my lawn bitches! I don’t know how many wasps died below ground but many came streaming out and about half died trying to fly away.

Later that week, to my surprise, I saw a few wasps coming and going. Apparently their underground catacombs were partially immune to gas. Maybe survivors were rebuilding the nest? Possibly some wasps had been “afield” and missed the gas attack? At any rate they were still there and I was impressed.

I’d never really had a problem with wasps in general, only when they got dangerous. In their lower population numbers we’d returned to detente. Then again, they’d sooner or later become dangerous. How much abuse could the little wasp bunker take?

My chickens were milling around. I dumped a pile of scratch grain near the hole and my pint sized velociraptors went to town. Any nearby insect, stinging or not, was doomed. I watched several wasps fleeing and many more stuck in circling orbits, unable to return to their lair. I couldn’t tell if any wasps got eaten but since my poultry are piranha with feathers and they attacked en masse I assumed so. (I’m pretty sure a chicken’s feathers provide a measure of protection because I’ve seen chickens around bees and wasps and the chickens hardly notice them. On the other hand I think bees aren’t quite as tasty as other bugs because chickens don’t actively seek them out.)

The next day the wasps, having survived a gassing and “The Chickening” were still there. Smaller population but clearly inhabiting the same hole. Impressive. What should I do to them next?

A week later I was mowing the lawn. The wasps were, as always, coming and going from their hole. I idled the lawnmower, deck set on low, right over their hole. Sure enough a few wasps were sucked up from the hole and flung from the mower deck. Miraculously, one actually landed, paused a moment, and took flight. Wow!

After the gassing and the “chickening” and the mower vortex attack, their numbers were severely reduced. Even so, they kept on keepin’ on. I had a grudging appreciation for their toughness. I’d bought a second can of spray but didn’t use it.

One day, after several beers, I noticed their hole, still active, and took a leak on it. I don’t think this killed any wasps but it amused me. I got in the habit of pissing on their nest. The wasps never regained their former glory but they didn’t give up either. For my part, I never went a week without remembering to piss on my opponent’s bunker.

It went that way for months. I’d piss on ’em, spray ’em, run the lawnmower over ’em, pour my leftover coffee cup down the hole, whatever occurred to me. Once I parked a truck on the hole for a few days. When I drove off they emerged again. Apparently the nest wasn’t air tight (I don’t think they had a back door exit).

They never totally gave up. It’s amazing what a critter will put up with before it’ll relocate. I fully expected them to overwinter successfully.

This spring, they were gone. Not a single wasp to be seen. I kinda’ miss them. Apparently I’d hassled them enough, the survivors, and I know there were survivors, must have seen the writing on the wall and skipped town. Given their tenacity I’d expected to be pissing on them for another decade. I was wrong.

Sorry to interject politics into a happy story about a redneck pissing on a wasp nest but the whole thing reminds me of Toyota. After 57 years Toyota pulled a factory out of California and relocated to Texas. (It made the papers a few weeks ago; here and here.) Texans cheered. The rest of the country thought “you mean there are still companies trying to operate in California?” Californians were mystified. The LA Times reported “taxes, regulations and business climate appear to have had nothing to do with Toyota’s move”. Yeah… sure. Is that like how I pissed on a bug’s nest weekly and gassed them and ran over them with big rotating blades it was just a matter of the bugs relocating because they wanted a new home with marble counter tops and a shorter commute? Why would a company put up with more hassles than a wasp?

P.S. Some folks have asked if I’m talking about hornets instead of wasps. I have no idea. Not bees. That’s all I know and they’re gone now.

I update my blogroll like Congress passes budgets. After a couple years of procrastination I finally remembered to add Sippican Cottage.

Incidentally Sippican Cottage has raised the bar of cool too new heights. Here’s a link to his homeschooled kids rocking Django Reinhardt. When I was that age it’s doubtful I could have identified Django Reinhardt and the sounds that emanated from my guitar were… well let’s just say it’s a darned good thing they weren’t recorded for posterity. I suppose there’s a reason I eventually hung up the guitar and chose chainsaw as my instrument of choice? At any rate it’s a good blog and worth a visit.

While I’ve been emoting about tractors I forgot to mention a blogroll addition. I implore you to check out The Bloggess.

Warning, it has nothing to do with homesteading, liberty, economics, guns, politics, tractors, my talking dog, or homicidal trees. If you’re looking for a tie-in to any subject I regularly mention, you won’t find it.

Here’s a random sample post that amused me:

me:  The control button does nothing.

Victor: Hmm?

me:  My life is spiraling out of control and this button on my keyboard is sitting here taunting me.

Victor:  You’re supposed to use it in conjunction with other buttons.

me:  I know, but it’s like a secret potion that no one ever remembers the ingredients to.  Except for “Control/Alt/Delete” which just says “FUCK THIS. I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING.”  That’s not “control”.  That’s “devastation“.  Might as well just take a hammer to the monitor.

Victor:  You should take a computer course.

Farming is hard. On the other hand, I’ve made some progress:

Plowing turned mother earth into corrugation. The disk did an ok job hammering corrugation into a fluffy chunks of sod mixed with dirt that was like driving through a milkshake. It took a while.

The super heavy disk made the soil actually more hilly. To smooth it I tried the drag. Alas it was mostly tangly bits of steel that fell apart. (Plus I dropped it on my foot which made me dislike it.) It was still too rough to plant.

Finally I parked the Foxinator’s tractor and got out mine. I hooked up my lighter disk, reveled in the luxury of a padded seat and a gearshift that wasn’t threatening to castrate me and put in several hours. This did wonders. Still lacking a drag I chained about 10′ of telephone pole diameter log (next year’s firewood) behind the disk. Inelegant but it worked.

My tractor served me well until it conked out. Damn.

Lacking a planter I manually stuck in some seeds that are a combination of vegetable garden and “I wish I owned a seeder”. If they succeed I may mention them later. If not, this was all an experiment.

The rest isn’t seeded yet and in truth the field is only half done but I’ve got the tools and they’re working. It’s a big area, it’ll take forever. I’m in it for the long haul and will go at it a little at a time from now on. This year’s plowing and disking is all about paving the way for next year. Also I’m happy that I no longer look like a complete dipshit who can’t plow a field. I much prefer my current status as a complete dipshit who can plow a field.

This extra space will be broadcast seeded with my hand crank “tactical” seeder. That’ll take a while but since I have no harvest implement it’s mostly for ground cover to compete with weeds. I’d rather have deer forage than more *&*^%$ weeds. (My theory is that next year’s plowing will be much easier since it was cultivated this year. So deer “feed” is just my holding pattern while I gear up for more practical cultivars. Plus I should have plenty of easy pickings come hunting season.)

I’ve also plowed the mother of all firebreaks around the perimeter. Next spring the field can be carpet bombed and it’ll be safe. Unless, of course, I can just plow again and don’t need to resort to fire.

I have no harvest implements. I’m biding my time, hoping to find a few more implements like my excellent plow; either a seeder or mower or harvest equipment or whatever. Hopefully something in fair shape. It seems best to keep my options open and buy what shows on the market. Then I’ll simply plant and harvest whatever I can mechanize rather than the other way around. It’s a theory. It could be a bad one.

So now you know everything there is to know about “farming” on a budget of (almost) zero. Knowing what I’ve been through, you might want to hug your rototiller.

A.C.

I’d borrowed a tractor with missing hitch assemblies. I couldn’t buy the missing parts. The best I could find was about $250 to have them shipped over the Internet.

Finally the solution dawned on me. I bought two short lengths of the stoutest chain, two chain hooks, and two clevices. I didn’t like the hooks but it was all I could find on a Sunday. I was in it for less than $30.

Incidentally one of the two “check chains” was unhooked (this because its mount point was broke off). I was more worried about lift than lateral stibility. Who needs a “check chain” anyway?

I hooked up the new chains in lieu of the missing lift arms, hitched up my plow, and gave it a shot. It lifted like a champ. Wow!

“I am,” I thought humbly, “a God!”

I drove to the field and chugged along about 100′. It dug two furrows. The freshly burned grass flipped over just as it should.

I turned. The tractor turned. The plow didn’t. The whole thing stretched to the left. The outside rear of the plow caught on the tire chain and while I jabbed at the clutch, launched a lynch pin into orbit.

So that’s what check chains do. It’s good to learn new things.

I slapped on another lynch pin. Since the tractor had one of two check chains I stopped going clockwise and started traversing the field counterclockwise. Problem solved.

After a few passes I took a picture of my handiwork. I texted it to Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“I CANT BELIEVE YOU HAVE A SMART PHONE AND USE IT TO SEND PICTURES OF DIRT”. Came the reply.

She needed context. “I AM A GOD!” I texted back.

“THAT’S NICE HONEY.” Came the response. She’s a keeper!

Plowing, even with the much stronger tractor, is an art. Want to know the secret? Here goes:

The shift lever is a steel rod with a copper cap soldiered on. No labels. When you click it into gear it might be 3rd or it might be reverse. The steel rod is inches from your junk and deadly solid. I got the best plowing by putting it into second gear which seems the most scary and I recognize as “nutsack” gear. If the gearshift is pointed at the carotid artery it’s in reverse. Don’t use high range if you want to live.

Depth control was a disaster, first too deep and then too shallow. Sometimes running one bottom so deep the other did nothing. Other times smooth sailing. Something needed to be done with the leveling.

First I had to get the tires into the furrow from the previous pass. This made the whole tractor tilt wildly to the right. If it tilted too much the plow bit too deep. Too little and the plow didn’t do a good job. I mentally thought of the proper tilt as “two beers”.

I lifted the plow out of the soil and shortened various chains one link at a time. (I’d initially installed them identical length. I found a sweet spot at 4 links on one side and 3 links at the other. It reminded me of an ironic tilt of eyebrows so I made a note to remember “ironic” setting.

The hydraulic lift probably expected a solid lift arm instead of some dunce with a chain. I adjusted often. Even so I got steady best average at “o” along the label which said “position”. I remembered this as “second o”.

Throttle position was best at about 80%. I don’t know why.

I told you it was an art.

After a while I took a break and let the tractor cool down. The next day I hit it again hard. I kept the chains on “ironic”, planted the tire in the furrow at “two beers”, with 80% throttle in “low nustack” and depth at “second o”. It was perfect.

This is why old farmers who answered my plowing questions sounded like flakes.

It’s hard work. You spend a lot of time looking behind you, twisting at the waist. If I was a chiropractor I would give my customers free old tractors.

Almost done.

A.C.

The Foxinator had the usual feminine disregard for mechanical details. I got no more information than “it’s big, reddish”. How could I lose?

I borrowed it and trailered it home. Her tractor is from the mid-1950’s. Meaning it’s twice as powerful and advanced as mine. Awesome! Also, being “modern” it has a standard three point hitch so I could mount my plow on the bigger tractor. Also awesome.

Easy right? Wrong!

Her tractor, like all old tractors, is an amalgamation of parts and functions which remain from manufacture, shit which has been welded on, and stuff that’s fallen off. One rear tire had a chain. One didn’t. (Which is one more than I can afford for my tractor!) It had a bucket loader! It had no bucket. It had aftermarket live hydraulics bolted on the PTO. It had high/low range, the usual shifting lever, and a few other levers that seemed important. It had aftermarket headlights, both of which were smashed. Some switches that seemed to do nothing. As per tradition, nothing was labeled.

I had my doubts. Then I turned the key. My doubts vanished. I revved the throttle once and knew without a doubt that this machine could take a shit with more horsepower than my little old machine could muster on its best day.

Also on the trailer was a disk that weighed roughly ten million tons (meaning it could dig deeper than mine) and a big wad of pointy metal that was purported to be a drag.

Easy right? Wrong!

I wasted a couple hours trying to hook up my plow and it just wouldn’t go. The Foxinator’s three point hitch was a jungle gym of bent objects. No matter how I tried it just wouldn’t pin to my plow and lift it.

Finally I went to my tractor (as an example) and started counting parts. The Foxinator tractor’s lift arm leveling assemblies were too long and they looked spindly. Eventually I figured out they were actually stabilizer brackets and therefore utterly useless for lifting anything. Suppose you have a powerful hydraulic yoke and nothing hooked to it; how is it going to lift anything?

I went shopping at every tractor store in creation (or at least everywhere in the vicinity). Tractor stores are hell.

AC: “I’m looking for a lift arm leveling assembly.”

Store Guy: “For what?”

AC: “This tractor (giving model number). Anything will do. It doesn’t have to be new or perfect.”

Store Guy: “You should already have one on each side.”

AC: “I don’t.”

Store Guy: “It won’t lift without it. You probably have it and don’t know.”

AC: “Here’s a picture of it.”

Store Guy: “You’re missing the lift arm leveling assemblies. You need one on each side.”

Pause. Deep breath. Count to ten.

AC: “That’s a good idea. Can I buy one?”

Store Guy: “We don’t have any.”

AC: “Can you order one?”

Store Guy: “That’s a hassle. You sure you don’t have it. Did someone leave it in a field?”

Pause. Think happy thoughts.

AC: “That could be. It’s also missing a tire chain and the bucket.”

Store Guy: “I got a bucket for sale.”

AC (retreating): “Gee thanks. I’ll be going now.”

This lasted weeks. I was at my wit’s end.

Farming… it’s not merely hard, it’s a stone cold bitch.

A.C.

As darkness drew nigh, Foxinator suggested we split up. “You go clear that area near the mailbox and start working your way down here along the black line. We’ll keep inching the line past your house.”

Good thinking! I trudged to the entire other side of the field and started burning cautious strips of the field proper.

It was a regular cycle.

1. I’ll just touch off this little strip of grass.
2. That’s no biggie. I’ll do a little more over here.
3. Aaaauauuuuughhh!
4. OK whew, it’s all died down again. I really should switch to decaf.
5. Return to step 1.

A half hour later I looked over to where I’d left Foxinator. A 200 yard line of waist high flames obscured half of the horizon.

“Well, I thought, “Either she lost it or she’s getting the job done now that the biggest ninny is out of the way.” It was definitely the latter.

Since Foxinator and her crew was running amok on her side, my only job was to make sure no place got missed. I zipped back and forth lighting stuff. Especially in the “furrows” that had grown into a matted mess. That took some work. Some burned hot. Others wouldn’t carry fire.

Eventually my carefully managed, hard won, carefully lit, nearly straight fireline backed into the Foxinator’s patchy wavering headfire. Both died out flawlessly. It hadn’t burned much better on my highly managed side than her, chill out and watch it, side. She wins!

Foxinator and crew adjourned for (late) dinner. I stayed and circled the fire a dozen times lest some spark explode into an inferno… which was unlikely and didn’t happen.

I have resolved to make darned sure I’ve got a better fireline next time. I want a 5′ bare dirt circumference. Paved. With hydrants. Manned by an Army. Then I can burn it properly as Foxinator did instead of dinking around like a little pansy.

Later, Foxinator asked when I was going to plow the field. I admitted that my tractor can handle cultivated soil but probably not sod, even though we’d burned off the thatch. She offered that I could borrow her tractor. I nearly fell out of my chair trying to thank her.

More to come.

A.C.