Went out this morning finding dead calf at birth. Way I understand it, the calf’s enlarged head didn’t timely pass out/through the birth canal as it should have and die in the canal. The cow, remaining strong managed to push the calf out regardless. Life going on I had my physical therapy appointment to keep.
My 1 ½ houred PT went easily enough. Coming home a couple slices whole wheat toast with honey was breakfast. No rain, out the drive I was turning left the second time this time the grain wagon in tow, yup, I thought I’d get a jump on supply before I’m empty wagoned caught short unable to timely grind when the feed is needed next. Corn supply was backed up at least two days. I’m pleased with myself I had initiated this jump.
Shelled corn unavailable so to speak, I had messed up leaving my juice can off the exhaust pipe, an 1850 Ollie. I thought I had better start it and let it run awhile for drying out any water gotten in the engine.
Spent a good deal of time looking for a misplaced JD parts manual? Never found it. Did discover the shop is one Hell of a mess. It needs a thorough cleaning up, things put away trash and scrap thrown out. The Manual just may come out of hiding once its uncovered?
Somewhere in there I put the fluids back into the 4020. This was the second time this overhaul got them without having yet let me hear the music sweetly coming from the engine’s smoke stack. A funnel designed for each use the tall slender one I used for pouring the oil back into the engine I had drain just days ago, the skinny necked full bellied funnel hosting three screens temporarily accepted 50/50 coolant on its way into the radiator, and lastly I vertically dumped gasoline into the red necked gas tank‘s top. Sjayzooks, I goofed again. Pouring gas in the top the gas was running out the bottom, the floor making a mess of it. Shucks, What’ll I do? I grabbed the first gas can my hand touched and the same funnel I pour the now polluting fluid in in the first place. Next I threw saw dust all over the spilled gas. While it soaked away I hit the can’s looing for that odd brass fitting I already knew we didn’t have. I found two, one to large the other to small, I kept up my search narrowing it down throwing all the big stuff back into the can I had dumped in the first place. I found another fitting, taking it to the open pipe spilling it heart out a pail catching now rather than the smelly stuff hit the floor. It was a mite to big. Darn it a guy as got to have a bit of luck once in a while? I found it, the perfect brass coupling> I couldn’t plug the pipe but should fit. I tried it hoping I could Rub Goldberg it providing it fit. I hopefully tried it , it was no go. Something wrong with the threads. No don’t force it I went back to the last of the fast filling brass fittings can. What’s this, I didn’t believe it, my eyes deceiving surely me. I grabbed it as if I had no choice, and scurried to the flowing pipe. I didn’t even go at fitting the pieces together as I already knew they couldn’t fit together… I was wrong, without effort the new piece in my finger turned right screwed right into the leaking pipe, and amazing as it was neither that fitting nor I needed a plug as there already was one on it. A couple wrenches The gasoline flow had come to an end.
What a mess I had across the floor. The saw dust has always been a good substance for the farm shop’s floor. It has always done what I had expected to stopped the tide’s flow going any further across the floor. I needed the broom and shovel for starters. I swept the wet saw dust into a pile. The wet spots that remained I brought with the tip of the broom into the still clean and dry saw dust pushing it away from the pile to color as dirty as that material deeper in the pile. When all said and done all the sawdust of equal colors I had to put the sopping wet stuff somewhere. It’d been best to have taken it out and burned it immediately, but was raining as hard as if it were coming for a big cow standing over the scene. I put the contaminated saw dust in a supplement feed sack I had been putting my soiled newspaper rags in the last few days. All the saw dust deposited in that bag I rolled it shut and it in Ugly for the ride home. I could do with a rosy evening fire to warm my being as well as my soul.
Entering the house I assured Frieda I had the makings of a rosy fire, the rosy fire idea I was not about to loose sight of. I squished that supplement sack making sure its top was rolled and creased so it’d fit the stove’s anxious belly. The hazardous firelighter in place I stuffed several pages from one of my favorite magazines under the loaded supplement bag, placed some logs of varied sizes upon the sack, and reached for the box of safety matches. The next thing I did, I could say was crucial! I left the woodstove doors open as I struck that first and only match. Leaving the stove’s doors open I wanted to see that bag burn with plenty of air and open space about it. I was in no hurry to close that stove’s door on an explosive content. I had rather not seen such as our woodstove lifting off into orbit before settling back into place to keep me and mine warm.
All went well. The stove neither exploded, lifted of nor embarrassed me in my neighbor hood. May I suggest as been so often heard on TV, “Don’t be trying this at home!” BGKC.