Adaptive Curmudgeon

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.

My tractor is sized, designed for, and properly hitched it to a splendid two bottom plow but it was all for naught. The furrows I’d made the year before had taken root and formed foot high weed barricades of doom. Even the ATV kept getting stuck in the mess. The rest of the field was a mess too.

What little social capital I’d built up was ebbing. There can be no respect in the rural hinterlands for a guy who can’t grow a crop. The locals had surely dismissed me as an inept failure. They were right. I might as well shave my beard and quit homesteading entirely. A fool who can’t plow might as well form an interpretive dance troupe and become as publicly useless to reflect the inner failure indicated by his field. No amount of deer hunting and firewood stacking could save my reputation.

So long as the field was in disarray the pressure was on.

I decided my tractor simply lacked the balls to plow untilled sod. I’d need to either find a one bottom plow or feed my tractor steroids. I couldn’t find a one bottom plow.

Weeds were another issue. It seemed to me that no tractor could plow a field if the weeds were too thick. Remember, plows aren’t about brawn. They cut, or slice, or slide, or “fly” through the soil. They don’t just bludgeon it. If a real farmer had my field he’d turn to other implements in his toolbox. He might need a brush hog to cut down the weeds? Maybe a cultivator to break up the sod? Maybe a dose of glyphosate to kill the roots? I had none of this.

I turned to the only tool I could find on a budget of zero; fire! I decided to use my big monkey brain to clear the weeds by releasing nature’s energy to my ends. This is a lot like needing a ditch but lacking a shovel and therefore setting off a self sustaining nuclear chain reaction instead.

I got a permit, so quit thinking I’m just a damn pyromaniac. I’m all about being legal.

Before ignition I tried to mow a “fireline”. This vaguely cleared some of the burnable material in some of the area until I ran over loose fencing wire and my mower deck toasted out. So much for that. Then I burned (and extinguished) small patches along the mowed line. I wanted to establish a blackline which the fire wouldn’t cross. (Thankfully most of the field was bordered by a dirt road.)

It was too much to do myself. In desperation I called a friend; enter the Foxinator. With her help (and a couple other folks dumb enough to pitch in) we inched the blackline around the field. Mrs. Curmudgeon wisely cleared out of Dodge.

I was cautious. A few yards lit, let it burn out, light a few more yards. Slow and steady. Keep it cool.

It was taking forever. I’ve fought wildfires as a job (and structure fires too) but it’s a whole different stress level when you’re the guy with the match. I was super nervous. There is no upper limit to how bad it could go. Suppose, despite careful planning and diligent effort, the whole thing went pear shaped? I had visions of a firestorm raging through towns, villages, and orphanages. There would be newspaper articles about the moron who couldn’t afford a decent tractor so instead he burned out six farms and the nearest grain elevator. I would be tarred and feathered! I would deserve it.

Meanwhile, I’d become a “thing of interest”. Our road has only a few houses. We might see one vehicle go by every hours at most. (That’s all the traffic I want!) As I was out there touching off two foot high flames in little strips, it seemed like every damn car in a ten mile vicinity cruised by. They’d roll along, slow to nearly a halt, maybe walking speed. Being friendly (not wanting to alienate the neighbors) I’d wave. Then, as if they’d been caught watching porn through a keyhole, they’d look straight ahead and zoom away. Really? Is that how you’re going to play it? Sixteen cars pass in the last half hour and they’re all going to pretend that this is their evening commute?

One and only one neighbor came by in person. Even though I make fun of him, he was the only person with the balls to speak to me personally. He’s pretty friendly and frankly he deserves some sympathy for having me as a neighbor. He’s got a big ATV (actually a UTV) and never leaves it. As far as I can tell the ATV is in charge and the guy is just along for the ride. I’ve never seen him actually walk but I’ve seen the ATV go everywhere. To the mail box, down the road, to visit his horses, with a rifle on hunting season, etc… Usually he’s clutching a lite beer and smiling. I joke that the ATV is sentient and the driver is just there for disguise. He, like everyone else, inched past on the road. I waved to him. He sighed and drove across the field to where I was standing. Walking was out of the question. From the seat of his ATV he launched into a story about how this very day his brother’s uncle’s cousin had just had a fire that jumped six paved lanes and run amok and it took two local fire departments to put it out. It was obviously bullshit.

“Today?” I said.

“Oh yeah, just today. Really dry out.” He said.

The ground was still ice. He’d just driven his ATV over the ash of burned grass and I was moving at the speed of a glacier. His storytelling somewhat annoyed me.

“Want a beer?” He said.

All was forgiven.

Alas all he had was lite beer and I’d rather get kicked in the face.

“No thanks. But I appreciate the visit.”

With that he headed back to his house, or rather the ATV did and he was still sitting in it. Somehow he lumbered up and over the big furrows I’d made without spilling a drop of the beer that was in his hand. (In retrospect I’ve rarely seen him without a can welded into his left hand.) Nice guy though.

More to come.

A.C.

A historical aside: After horses and before things got standardized, each tractor manufacturer had their own hitch arrangement. Some with the alien voodoo technology called hydraulics and others without. Some were symmetrical and some were asymmetrical. A smart fellow named Harry Ferguson made a hitch that was just as likely a contender as the others. Actually Ferguson’s hitch system was pretty good. A lot of people preferred it. I like it.

Ferguson made what has forever been called “the handshake deal” in 1938 with a guy called Henry Ford. Heard of him? Yah, I thought so. That’s why my Ford tractor has a placard on the hood proudly claiming my machine has the excellent and marketable “Ferguson System”. Yay! Ferguson’s hitch system was pretty good. Combined with Ford’s popularity, it crushed the other hitch systems in a way which brings to mind the word “Betamax”. It became the de facto standard for nearly all tractors and has remained so for the better part of a century.

Everything was awesome. Then Henry Ford woke up one day and decided there was no reason to keep paying patent fees. In his steamy little head it was a groovy idea to royally fuck Ferguson over. He was Henry Goddamn Ford! Why not simply be evil? Perhaps you’re thinking this was a misunderstanding? Nope. Ford was something of an asshole. I suppose hosing a business partner is no big deal if you’re a grumpy anti-semitic Nazi sympathizing jackoff.

Litigation ensued but Ford was… well he was Ford. You think he was going to lose? A Ford tractor made a few years after mine has the same hitch system but the placard saying “Ferguson System” no longer exists. This somehow makes it all perfectly cromulent?

The moral of the story is that if a guy like Ford wants to do a “handshake deal”, shoot the bastard. Then shoot his ass again just to make sure. Ford was the Google of his time. If I was writing this blog ten years ago I’d say Ford was Bill Gates. There’s a level of rich and powerful that can turn a simple jerk into a raging monster.

The reason I’m mentioning the whole “handshake” asshattery of seven decades ago is that it still, to this day, affects the sale price of a seventy year old tractor. Totally reasonable tractors of the era such as Allis Chalmers or International Harvester are less useful if they have their original hitch system. The price reflects it. The other brands are either retrofitted to have a standard hitch or they’re relegated to towing but not lifting an implement. Also you’ll never find implements that fit a non-Ferguson setup. They exist but you’ll be entering the realm of collector with the associated price and hassles. (On the other hand, if you have the non-standard implement and the tractor that goes with it, you’re officially excellent. Restore them both and keep the set together. Be warned, collectors might stalk you and try to shove money in your pockets to buy them.)

A.C.