Christmas at the Baileys might be a bit sparse this year. This afternoon as I was picking up tools from working in what will be our garden, I came across a little red hat with white fur trim lying in the grass where Linda had mowed a couple hours earlier. It measures about four inches long, and just fits on the tip of my index finger. I can only guess what became of its owner, and shudder to even think of it. I was unable to locate any sign of him, despite a heartfelt search. I placed the hat on a nail beside our front door. Maybe the owner, having miraculously escaped Linda's whirring blades of death, will venture to retrieve it. I can only imagine the report being submitted to the big guy in the red suit. Suffice it to say, Linda's not likely to be on his "nice" list. I however, expect to rise a few notches on said list, and to be rewarded commensurately. Too any children who were the responsibility of this particular little fella, I am deeply sorry, and truly hope that either he escaped unscathed, or that there is another little helper who will pick up the slack so you don't have to suffer for my wife's carelessness.
It was a beautiful day here at Back Acres, cool enough to work without sweating profusely, but warm enough to keep from shivering. When we moved here a couple years ago, I made the difficult decision to part with my beloved Gravelys, since I didn't have a place to store them. I gave them to our friend Steve Carlson, who loves the old beasts even more than I do, and unlike me, has the mechanical know-how to keep them running in tip-top shape. I usually spent more time trying to get them started than actually working with them. When I gave my machines and attachments to Steve, it was with a caveat: I could borrow one any time I needed it. It was a win-win situation: Steve got a couple more Gravelys and a bunch of attachments, and I got to use a running machine whenever I wanted. So this morning, I headed over to Steve's to pick up the Gravely with its rotary plow to till up the area we had cleared of sumac down by the creek. It was the 1948 model I had given him a couple years before we moved here. It was good to see my old mechanical friend again.
Steve refreshed my memory on the operational procedure and noted that this particular machine had one little quirk. The lever to engage the plow had stripped its bolts, so to engage the plow, he just put his foot on top of the lever to hold it in place while he popped it in gear. Pretty simple fix. We loaded it onto my truck, and I headed home, unloaded it without incident, and fired it up. It smoked like I was trying to fog for mosquitos, but ran great. I popped the plow into gear, and away we went. For about a furrow and a half, before the plow popped out of gear.
Seems that it had enough momentum to stay in gear, but only if I wasn't putting any resistance to the plow. It's a bit hard to plow without putting resistance on the blades. It was an easy fix, however. I hopped on the bike, headed to the Cassadaga hardware to pick up a couple mounting bolts and nuts, and in twenty minutes was hard at work fastening the clutch lever securely to the casting.
I don't know what went wrong. After all, I'm not the mechanic. Everything worked as it should, the gears sliding nicely into place, but the plow doesn't turn. So I guess in fact, everything is not working as it should, which is about typical for me with Gravelys. I love them, but my affections have never been returned. When it comes to Gravelys, I am the quintessential jilted lover. When will I ever learn? Oh well, it was a fine day to change the oil on my Ural, and tonight I am grateful that Steve is the proud owner of all my old Gravelys, and that he still considers me his friend after my having unloaded them all on him.
No comments:
Post a Comment