July 2009 - Posts
Is this normal, is it what everybody goes through, or am I wearing out quicker than everyone else.
Passed Another Mile Stone
I have passed another mile stone, each year it is the same,
Birthday's come and birthdays go, the excitement's getting tame,
Not so quick at doing things and hair it's gone all grey,
After lunch we have a nap, and bed times half past eight.
Walking's steady, running's out, pace myself a bit,
Now I have a shooting stick, on which I often sit,
Got to eat lot less now, the weight it going up,
I'd be sent to market now, if I were a fat old tup.
Eye sight not too bad but, cannot read without some aid,
Glasses need up dating now, the eyes they have decayed,
Should have longer arms to read, new glasses conquer that,
They hit you in the pocket hard, on the old ones I have sat.
Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post , no wonder it wunner budge.
I thank my lucky stars that, I'm being looked after very well,
Still here on this old planet, writing down my tale to tell,
Recording what I've done in life, and all the folks we met,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, but we still get bloody wet.
Countryman
Is this normal, is it what everybody goes through, or am I wearing out quicker than everyone else. On top of what I've' already mentioned my sense of smell has all but gone, but thank goodness I can taste my food and imagine the smell from days when the nose was up to it.
Over the years I have had a few repairs, look back and see my blog on "Knees", or click on Metal Joints , that was a long drawn out session, it was eighteen months before I felt the full benefit of the new knees, up to now I have had eight years pain free, can't expect to run like we did in the school sports.
It goes back to when seed grain came in one acre bags one and three quarter hundred weight a bag, that's 196lbs, or 88kg in new measurements, now no ones aloud to lift much more than 25kg or 56lbs. You can only imagine carrying more than three of those and a bit more. When we were threshing wheat for sale, they often sent the hessian sacks, and it was stipulated they had got to be weighed to 75kg one and half cwt. as it was then. Seed sacks there would be thirty or forty to un load and load up at drilling time, but the wheat for sale it could be anything up to seven or eight hundred sacks, despatched in ten ton loads. These were bagged off the back of the threshing machine weighed up then wound up on a sack hoist and carried on ya back to the store, They had to be stacked in rows two high with a gap between rows, to allow the cats to get in and keep the rats controlled, just a few sacks piled together rats would nibble hole in them the same night,
Then the wheat had to be re bagged and re weighed and a mess to sweep up as well. It was usual for us to work in pairs loading onto a wagon with a short stave of wood under the end of the sack , it saved ripping ya finger nails and easier to swing up to that height. At the mills where the wheat went they had chain hoists and sack trolleys to move them about, it was only on the farms where it was only a few heavy days work a year on that job that it was all done by man power, and thankfully it was only few more years that combines came in and bulk harvesting was here to stay.
Needless to say all this heavy lifting and carrying was sure to take a toll on the health of the individual, the evidence of which you can see at any gathering of older farmers, bowing legs and far from an upright stance. The old saying "hard work never killed anyone" is right up to a point, as most who have done graft all their working lives, have also eaten well, and very often healthily.
Through all the days of rationing in the forties and fifties, we always had eggs beef pork and bacon, old hen, nowadays called chicken, rabbit, goose, turkey, and always grew potatoes. Every garden in the village, be it farm or cottage always had a sizable patch for vegetables a pig sty and hens. If you were lazy, you did not eat so well.
God gives every bird its food, but he does not throw it into its nest.
J. G. Holland
I had the skin on the end of my index finger ripped off, at the time I thought it would have made a good tap washer, (they used to be leather)
Hands , they take a lot of rough treatment around the farm, my own father lost two fingers as a lad in the blade of a horse drawn mowing machine, see the tag Fingers for the full story on that and the poem "Fathers Fingers". Another chap who does a bit of my machinery maintenance for me, (the sort of jobs where ball bearings are likely to run all over the yard or where its difficult to get access to), he has lost quite a number of fingers, another lad who left school at the same time as me he lost three fingers on one hand in the first few months of leaving school, and left him with a little finger and a thumb.
Myself I had a bit of a close shave when I had the skin off the end of my index finger ripped off, about the size of a sixpence, the chunk of skin at that time I thought it would have made a good tap washer, ( the old tap washers were always leather) I thought I had lost that finger print for ever. (At this point I will check and see if my editor has fainted and slid under her desk, or is she made of sterner stuff. We will see). Its taken a couple of years for it to become tough enough to use as normal but now five years down the line its still not as thick skinned as the other nine. And yes I do have a finger print again but do not know if it is identical to the one that was torn off.
A Hand Can Tell Your Fortune
A hand can tell your fortune, and fingers for the prints,
Nails to stop them getting ragged or they look like splints,
To have a scratch or comb ya hair, reach in a bag o mints,
Useful for when ya want to eat, ya shepherds pie and mince.
Everyone has long arms, and what is on the end,
To reach around the corner, in the middle bend,
Fingers at the far end, for feel on these depend,
To hold them all together, a hand and palm extend
Hands are thin, hands are fat, some are large or small,
Most are there to match the body, writing with a scrawl,
Picking up and carrying, everything's a bloody maul,
Big hand for goal keepers, to grip and hold the ball.
Put ya hands together, and in appreciation clap,
With ya hand closed tight, on a front door tap,
To congratulate a friend, on the back you slap,
Sitting in ya armchair, hand clasped in ya lap.
You hand in your home work, but its hand outs that ya like,
Its hands that you steer with, when out on ya bike,
And its hands that you sing down, holding a black old mike
When you look at them together, they both look alike.
There's a left hand and right hand, and each has its own side,
When ya want to rest them , in ya pockets hide,
Writing's only done with one hand, to the pen applied,
Other holds the paper, only there to guide.
Hands you hold each others, a helping hand to give,
Sharing out and a caring, with your hand relive,
A whole lifetime together, whole lifetime we live,
Holding hands together, each other must not outlive.
Countryman
I have lost count on how many finger nails went black and dropped off after being pinched or hit with a hammer, and talking about finger nails, you often get a ridge across your nails growing out of the cuticle (if that's the right word) after some deep emotional shock. You see it some weeks after calves have been dehorned, they get a ridge growing out round the top of the hoof, the same with horse's hooves, it marks the time of stress and you can tell how long ago it happened by how far to the end of the nail or hoof it is. Stress marks can be seen on cattle with horns, and you can always tell how many calves a cow has had by the number of rings or ridges round the base of the horn.
The first numbering of cattle that father did was with a set of branding irons, not the ones the cowboys used on the hides, Kansas would tell us all about that, but smaller ones to burn the number into the horn or when we started to dehorn the cattle they were branded on the hoof.
Hoof branding was okay, but the hoof grows and the number had to be re-branded in again each year, and not only that you could only read it when the hooves were clean.
The first ear tags we had that had the herd number on as well was when we went TB tested and got an all clear herd, and every cow had a tag. The boundary fences had to be double fenced, and we got a bonus on the milk produced on top of the farm gate price. The milk cheque came around the 20th of the following month, as it did for everyone, and was a long strip of type written paper, with only one line with the milk delivered and the price given and the total, now we had a second line on the chit with the bonus for being tested. It bore no resemblance to the milk chits that come now all spit out of a computer with a couple of lines for additions and umpteen lines of deductions and penalties.
So have a good look at ya hands, see all the calluses, the scares, the ragged nails, the lines across the palm of your hand, the lumpy knuckle and crooked thumbs, the hard skin, and appreciate all the work and abuse that they have been used for over the years. Burnt and scalded, cold and frozen, they are electrocuted on the fencer, and are ripped on the barbed wire, they scratch when you itch and they comb ya hair, they write your cheques, and are put forwards to receive, they lift your pint, and they feed you, what more could you expect from a loyal pair of hands.
We were always told, if we were not getting on with the job at hand to "PULL YOUR FINGER OUT".
It was on my fifth birthday that papa put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Remember my son, if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one on the end of your arm'
Sam Levenson. (1911 - 1980)
Puffs and plumes of blue smoke, as tired old tractors start,
Backings off the trailers steady, every one take part,
Going back to the clubs ploughing match in early April 2009 here is a second report on the match.
We had a nice sunny day and ideal ploughing conditions and a good turnout of over ninety tractors taking part.
After totalling up the income and expenditure it was found we had £530 to give to charity of which was split between "Headway", and the parish church. Two representatives from Headway came and we presented them with £380 at the monthly meeting, and Rev. Hetherington came to receive £150 for the parish church funds.
Click over to my picture gallery to se aerial pictures of the ploughing match, also that is the Fordson Major E27N that I did the 36 mile road run on last Sunday
We had a Vintage Ploughing Match
We had a vintage ploughing match, the weather it was fine,
The men had marked it out real well, the pegs all aligned,
Finger boards at every junction, bring the entrants in,
Parked on a patch of turf, a catering van within.
Puffs and plumes of blue smoke, as tired old tractors start,
Backings off the trailers steady, every one take part,
Call to see Jack and Margaret, see what plot you've got,
Then across for a cup of tea, ten o'clock ploughing on the dot.
Off to find your numbered peg, line up the markers straight,
Clear off any straw or rubbish, to make your first scrape,
Judges walk round opening splits, and with a pencil sharp,
Mark the points up on the pad, not for us to carp,
Fine and even rough and bent, some were all perfection,
Everyone did the best they could, up to their satisfaction,
Finish crooked finish straight; look round all the plots you creep,
Some they falter some they're fine, some they're bloody deep.
Oil the plough and load it up, then off for a cup of tea,
Gathered round the catering van, judges are still busy,
Adding up the points we've gained, sorting out the classes,
Seeing who will win the cup, and see who needs new glasses.
A raffle held and tickets sold, money for good cause,
Added to the gate takings, and sponsors here because,
Going to Headway House, Headway charity, brain injuries,
Open five days every week, support victims and their families,
A donation goes to the village church, to help the vicar out,
To help the funds for its upkeep, for this we sometimes shout,
So thank you all for your support, and made it, a great day,
Pleased to see you here again, tho it happens to be on SUNDAY.
(the vicars busy day)
Countryman
The living need charity more than the dead.
George Arnold.
Old tractors large, old tractors small,
Some go well, some they stall,
Most are older, than their owners,
Some run sweetly, some are groaners.
This last weekend we went on a vintage tractor road run with the Staffs Vintage Club. It started out at 9.30 am from Ed Weetman's haulage yard near Great Haywood, we headed north and north west up to Fullford via Gayton and Fradswell ending up near the outskirts of the Potteries (Stoke-on-Trent) where we stopped for coffee, this was the first of the three two hour stints that had been planned.
The second stint we followed all the narrow lanes back down the map just east of Stone and on to a Pub at Burston where we all had a sit down pre booked hot roast dinner, as we were a little ahead of our appointed time for lunch we stopped at a high vantage point a couple of miles short of the destination to take in the view of the countryside and work out what the distant land marks were that we could see on the distant horizons. Things always look different, when you are looking from someone else's "back yard" so to speak.
As the pub had a lot of Sunday lunch time bookings, we had been timed for the second sitting so to speak, and as we descended, on our old tractors, it created quite a lot of interest to those just leaving. Some of the tractors had to be left on the road side opposite the Pub itself, as the cross over of cars leaving did not happen as groups of people coming (us) and the groups of people leaving stood talking for quite a while.
It must have been an hour and half (or more) stop, and eventually everyone mounted their tractors, and the passengers loaded up on the trailer behind the lead tractor. My tractor, (Fordson E27N) was the only one that had got to be cranked with the starting handle, so to ensure we all started off all together, I cranked up first, then had enough time for it to warm up and switch it over from petrol to vapourising oil, this you can do from the driving seat on some smaller Fergies, but mine it has to be done standing by the side of the tractor.
On our third stint we headed through Sandon, Salt and Hopton, it was here at Hopton that we had our first casualty tractor, an International B250, ( MY second tractor my brother in law driving) it had run out of water over heated and stooped, it was soon hooked up behind another similar International and had a tow for the last seven or eight miles back to complete the run.
We continued on through Ingestry, entering Ingestry up a lane next to the Stafford County Show Ground. From there we headed through the village of Great Haywood up farm tracks nearly to Admaston and in a wide arc back into the top end of Hixon . It was only a short hop then back to the yard from where we had set out.
In all we were told we had covered 36 miles, and we had done it in three two hour stages and must have had two hours for stoppage time, plus a stop while the old B250 was being fixed up with a tow.
There was a little natter and a formal thank you to the organizers of the run before all were loaded up and heading home.
The B250, started, when it had cooled off, and was driven onto its trailer, there was one other tractor that seemed to baulk and its engine stall a couple of time on steep up ward slopes, but it sorted itself out and completed its run under its own power.
We were fortunate enough to only have the threat of drizzle for a few minuets, other than that it was fine weather all day, going against what the forecast said the day before.
Thank you to Tom, who planned and organized the run with help from Jack, also thank you to Chris who organised the refreshment stops. And thank you to all who took part, it all helped make it a memorable tractor road run.
Old tractors large old tractors small.
Old tractors large, old tractors small
Some go well, some they stall,
Most are older, than their owners,
Some run sweetly, some are groaners.
Worn out tyres, cracked and perished,
Rims all pitted with rust and blemished,
Some come with nose stove in,
Cut it off and chuck it in bin.
New bonnet it will cost the earth,
Sprayed and polished, look like new birth,
New chrome nut for steering wheel,
To finish the tractor, will give you zeal.
Wheel nuts painted or new ones shiney,
New pins and clips, on little chains o'h blimey,
These little touches make the difference,
Get it noticed from a distance.
First thing you're told when first you're out,
"That's not right shade", and gives you doubt,
A clever clogs with brush painted bonnet,
That's my old tractor, he's to covet.
Quite a bit of competition,
Who's got the silliest seat cushion?
Hessian bag on tin pan seat,
Very original, but not so neat.
Every one becomes an expert,
Their influence on you exert,
Keep it original they say,
Fibre glass copies keep at bay.
A nice sweet engine, like to hear,
New plugs and leads, and wheel to steer
Throaty roar when it's struck up,
Draw the crowds, when you wind it up.
Countryman
Happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort
Car numbers and engine numbers and chassis numbers too,
Model numbers part numbers, colour codes pursue.
House numbers street numbers, area post codes an all,
All across the country, codes for counties large and small,
Does anyone still have one of these Farmers Weekly metric converters, I still use mine and had it even before I had a calculator. The numbers game has gone absolutely mad in the last thirty years, look at the Cattle Movement Service and all the ear tag numbers, and all the numbers involved in the Single Farm Payments system.
At one time the only number that went on your cow or beast you were selling was the paper auction yard number, and the accountant always wanted to look at your movement book to try and trace what you sold and when, but even that only said cow or calf or sheep and how many on what date and the lot number, and all the fields had names and the lanes and ponds and woods.
Numbers Galore
Phone numbers and the mobile, bank sort codes n' accounts,
Credit card that can be skimmed, all ya savings trounce,
Car numbers and engine numbers and chassis numbers too,
Model numbers part numbers, colour codes pursue.
House numbers street numbers, area post codes an all,
All across the country, codes for counties large and small,
Field numbers, map numbers, parish number long,
Acres turned to hectares, if ya know where they belong.
SBI and there's IACS, vendor as well,
PI and a Trader numbers, and Stewardship numbers tell,
There's numbers for every thing, for this that and tuther,
Fill ya head with confusion, so many thing that got to cover.
Gallons turned to litres, pounds and ounces gone to grams,
Miles turned to kilometres, and foot to millimetre crammed
Therms have turned to Mj's, power in Hp turned to Watts,
Heat is Btu to lbs, is now into Joules per Kilogram it jots.
The moneys gone to Euros, bank rate measures that,
Information all in plastic, and its in your wallet sat,
Converted into bar codes, so computers read the lot,
Nothing ever private now, they know all of what you've got.
Countryman
Beyond a critical point within a finite space, freedom diminishes as numbers increase...... The human question is not how many can possibly survive within the system, but what kind of existence is possible for those who do survive.
Frank Herbert (1920-1986)
As a second tractor father went quite modern and bought the latest Fordson, a Fordson Major, basically it was a "long legged" version if the Standard Fordson, only these had three point linkage and side brakes and taller rear wheels.
Along with it he had a two furrow mounted Ford Ransome plough, and a nine tined cultivator, he had already got a set of trailed Massy discs, and he had corn drill, it was an eleven spout Massy Harris coulter drill. This had been converted from a long pole for two shires horses to pull, to a short one with a clevis to hook behind his tractor. He had done a similar amputation on the pole of his binder.
The corn drill now could be pulled at a fast four miles an hour all day, with just the stops for filling the hopper. Across the back of the drill was a long handle that the man driving the horses could lift and lower the drill spouts, it also put the metering of the grain out of gear at the same time. Now it was pulled by the tractor a "running board" had to be fitted for a man to ride on the back to operate the handle and check that all the spouts were running. This made it a two man job although they were able to cover a greater acreage than he would with the horses.
He didn't stick that set up for many more years, as the drill was getting run off its wheels, wheels with wooden fellows and iron spokes, and the coulters badly worn.
It was after he had changed his old Standard Fordson for a Diesel Major he bought a new drill, this was a Massy Harris combine drill that he was able to sow the fertilizer at the same time as the corn. This had disc coulters and a trip cord for lifting and lowering the discs, and meant that once again it was a one man job. On good going this could be pulled at six to eight miles an hour, the new Major had six forward gears and the fifth gear was just right in dry conditions.
The drill still had steel wheels and had thirteen spout/ discs and because of the corrosive fertilizer it had rubber pipes to the coulters. Some of the fertilizer father bought was Humber Fish Muck, as it says its from the docks at Humberside, this was stinking job and came in powder form. It came in fine mesh hessian sacks of 1cwt. (50kg to you lads) and was unloaded off the delivery lorry, carried on ya back into a shed and stacked, then man handled out again onto a cart to take in the field.
Originally father had a horse drawn fertilizer spreader which had two large wheel at each end of a long box (hopper), in the bottom of the hopper was a row of plates, like dinner plates that turned slowly, with half of the plate inside the hopper and half carried the fertilizer out behind the hopper, this gap had a plough type scraper that could be adjusted to what amount of fertilizer was required. Then just above the plate at the back were two spinners to each plate, these were on a long full width rod to flick the product out. It was called a "Plate and Flicker" spreader. So this plate and flicker spreader became redundant for the spreading on corn ground, although he had fitted it with a drawbar.
When the Humber Fish muck was put in the combine drill on a dry day it went through very well, but on a foggy autumn days it clogged down the rubber spouts and every now and then they had to be taken off and cleared out, this meant a man had got to ride on the back to make sure all spouts were running. At a later stage the fertilizer company became aware of this problem with these new types of drills and started to produce it in granule form to try to over come the clogging.
In time the manufacturers brought out granulate compound fertilizer, which ran more reliably through the drill and these were sold in plastic fertilizer bags, when these had been man handled on and off transport a number of times they got pin holes and tares that would let in the damp and go rock hard. Then it became palletised. And later still into one half ton bags and then realised they could not get a full load of twenty tons on an artic trailer bed and upped the content to 600kg's.
All of my years I have ploughed.
All of my years, I have ploughed the fields,
To grow the crops, produce good yields,
Once was done, with teams of horses,
An acre a day ploughed, with frequent pauses.
The pace was slow, but made no mess,
No skidding or ruts, for them to address,
Seed broadcast by hand, or horse drawn drill,
Harrowed to cover, seed sown with skill.
Always a rotation, few annual weeds,
Do not get a hold , not aloud to set seed,
Thistles in the corn, hoed out with a spud,
Walked through the crop, pull all docks you could.
Cut crop with a binder, three shires to pull,
Followed by the men, stook the sheaves by armful,
Stays in the stook for two church bells,
Carted and stacked, threshed in winter grain to sell.
Countryman
Seeds of faith are always within us; sometimes it takes a crisis to nourish and encourage their growth.
Susan Taylor