Father's Miracle Machine

First Place Award In The "Monthly Calendar Contest"  June 2014

 

Father's Miracle Machine

By ~Kenword~

 
The four of us, all brothers, Rick, Randy, Roy and me, stood in the midst of the backyard chaos listening to our father shouting above the roar of three chain saws.

“Lilly Mae, you got that ice cream churner ready?”

Lilly Mae, our mom, lifted up her right hand in the shape of an “O” and hollered back.

“its all set Brad!”

“What do you think Rufus?” said the next-to-the oldest brother, Rick to out littlest brother Roy. Rick always called Roy “Rufus” to torment the poor boy. “I helped dad design the whole mighty magnificent time-saving-contraption.” Rick had indeed certainly done his part. Though he was 15 months my junior, he was already two inches taller than dad and twice as brilliant. A future nuclear physicist, if you want to know the truth.

“I don't believe it!” Roy said in a sleepy voice. I couldn't believe it either. The chainsaws suddenly stopped cold, leaving a hollow sound in the warm morning air. 6:30 a.m. on this July 1st and already the temperature was approaching 80 degrees. The day would be a scorcher. Two trailers in tandem, filled with log chunks or wheels from fallen madrone, fir and oak trees, were hooked to Big MacGreen, our John Deer Tractor.

Nearer to us, two men shoveled gravel into the mouth of a huge cement mixer while my father sprayed water into the enormous barrel housing sitting on a four wheel trailer. Dad had made a scaffold for his five foot four body to stand on so he could have full command of all the activity around the mighty magnificent “time-saving-contraption”. He switched the water spraying process to his left hand and waved at the five men loafing around the two trailers.

“You guys get those trailers unhitched over here by the chopper, and get Big MacGreen in place.”

“This is great!” shouted Rick. He dashed up onto the scaffold to join dad who immediately turned over the cement-mix-watering duties to him.

“Robert!” Dad waved both hands at me. I would have responded in a second, but my near hesitation provoked him to whistle a shrill burst of steam across his crooked teeth. My mom put her hands over her ears and shook her head.

“Wake up boy. I want you to help your uncle Clovis get Big MacGreen in place after he unhitches the trailers.”

Rick turned to me with that look of frustration that always said you just don't get it do you? Oh, I got it alright. Its just I usually was humiliated by the outcome of these father-knows-best-projects. It was Randy who really didn't get it. Or care. He wandered off to find where our dogs had gone off to, with Roy the Rufus toddling determinedly behind him. They would all be back for the home made ice cream of course. And that would be whenever this newest innovation from my brilliant father and his genius son bit the dust.

Big MacGreen bounced across the front two acres of our farm, along the cow path our two Herfords made years ago. Uncle Clovis was actually my grandfather's brother and couldn't see much of the path ahead. He liked to drive the tractor though, and made quick work of parking the two trailers next to the mighty magnificent “time-saving-contraption's” master chopping stump. As uncle Clovis climbed down from Big MacGreen I climbed up into its well worn seat.

I was aware, with each careful movement, that I was standing almost directly underneath the mighty magnificent “time-saving-contraption's” monstrous quadra-bladed guillotine like, wood chopper. From the seat of the tractor, looking up, the chopper's quadra-blade appeared to be a three foot circular section cut from the center of a 55 gallon drum, with sharpened steel blades welded in the form of a guillotine-cross dissecting the barrel frame's midsection. It actually looked like an enormous vegetable chopper.

The chain saw gang was regrouping, with wheel barrows and hammers, near where the new shop would be erected. As unlikely as it seemed at the time, dad would later direct another crew to turn a huge section of that building into my own private bedroom, but that's another story.

Dad's energy was catching up to everyone. Even uncle Clovis hustled to cast off the trailer couplings and set the tractor free. Once it was free I floored the gas pedal and Big MacGreen jumped. I double clutched and slammed the well worn gears into second. This was my stimulant and it was just the needed throttle I needed.

I pulled Big MacGreen between the cement mixer trailer, mom's ice cream maker (chocolate) on the left and the tripod with the wood chopping guillotine and conveyor belt and mom's other ice cream maker (peach) on the right . I shut Big MacGreen down. Rick, dad, Uncle Clovis and a few of the log handlers became a well orchestrated pit crew. We jacked all four corners of that tractor up simultaneously and put him on blocks. We rolled the wheels away and dad went to work bolting axle extenders off of every one of the four hubs. Within minutes there was a series of drive belts locked onto the mixer gears of the cement barrel and ice cream makers and the gears that moved the conveyor belt and raised and released the glimmering wood chopping blade.

We did not stop to admire our work. Uncle Clovis and a chain saw man put a forty pound round of madrone on the chopping block. The block was built up off the ground to about the height of a man's waist and had a sheet metal cone, like the top of a funnel mounted around it. At the bottom of the cone was a small space right above the conveyor belt.

Dad, the famous tight grin of his, etching deep web like crevices at the edges of his eyes, climbed onto Big MacGreen and started the engine. He set the choke to act as the throttle and then put the tractor in gear. The mighty magnificent “time-saving-contraption” that took thousands of man hours to design and build, was ready. Dad smiled with a bit of a chuckle as he slowly released the clutch. The belts tightened. Slipped. Tightened some more. The mighty barrel of the cement mixer rotated with only a moment's hesitation. It churned with fluid precision to create a creamy textured cement. The smaller gears to the ice cream mixers spun a bit too fast but worked none-the- less and would soon be churning out a chunky, but tasty icy cream. The chopping device was the glorious crown of creation that demanded the attention of every on looker.

Within a couple of seconds, the wood chopper rose to the apex of the tripod. There was a tiny snap. The cable holding the 80 pound blade was released into free fall and it dropped its dead weight, twenty feet, slicing through the iron heart of that madrone wheel as though it were merely a hard boiled egg. Split into four quarters the hardwood chunks fell into the cone, down onto the conveyor belt. The wood chunks were then conveyed up eight feet, over a blunt edge into the back end of Uncle Clovis' pick up truck.

At the chopping block, the lack of tension on the cable engaged the gears and pulleys in the tripod, and the blade popped up with a new menacing life. It rose once more to the apex of the tripod. Rick saw it happen just as he had drawn it out months ago. He was the center of a pandimonious celebration. The leader of the party was my mother, who had suffered two years of my father's pack-ratting-piles of windows, gravel, sand, cement, and old mechanical equipment. “I'm done with your mouldering piles of crap dearest!” was the tag-line to many of my parent's arguments in the last year. But now, with mixers churning, huge rounds of fire wood quarter split, she hurled about the group with madness gleaming in her eyes, shouting my father's praise.

I walked to the back porch of our two bedroom cabin to sit and wait for the catastrophe that was due to occur any minute. The number of father's failed innovation engineering projects was enormous, and those were the ones I knew of in my life time. But today, every nut, bolt, chain link, gear, belt, block, pulley and blade was perfect. Even Big MacGreen purred with a sweet rhythm that was hypnotic. Precise. Smooth.

My mother finished her dance and came to sit by me and watch. It was nearly 7 a.m. Hot. More men showed up in trucks. Some with their own madrone, fir and oak wheels to be split. Others with tools and boys, glad to be a part of the building party.

“You see?” my mother asked. “All the men of the families your dad helped over the years are coming over today.” She pointed to a group of six men who had been appointed to lay out the foundational forms for the concrete. Two other smaller groups of men started framing walls. Another group began to assemble roof trusses.

Uncle Clovis continued to supervise the chopping of wood and dad became the host, shaking hands and thanking everyone for coming. I knew dad had helped several folks build their five bedroom homes, and was aware of a few others that had received renovated kitchens and bathrooms, because of his skills as a carpenter. But to my knowledge, this was the first project on our own home that was on its way to being an unqualified success.

Rick joined various crews to pound nails or cut boards. Randy and Roy stayed missing until ice cream time. Mom and I sat on the porch until our back sides were aching. By the 10 o'clock break, the first two batches of ice cream were ready. So, as the temperature in the Russian River valley rose to over a hundred degrees, we scoop chunky bits of frozen cream into our faces. When the third and fourth batches of ice cream were ready, the mixers were re-attached to their specified drive axle, and churning of ice cream commenced once again on the mighty magnificent “time-saving-contraption,” My father brought over three lawn chairs. Me, dad and mom parked ourselves in the shade of a sixty foot live oak tree for the rest of the day. We watched with unbridled fascination as eager sweaty men and boys worked hard for us. Dad beamed with satisfaction, as his new shop was being constructed, and a new patio was being poured.

“I'm proud of you, Honey,” my mom said to my dad. She kissed his cheek and rubbed his neck. He kissed her lightly on the lips, then smiled that smile that made the deep crevices appear around his eyes.

“What do you think Robert?” he asked me with a wink.

“I'm proud of you too dad,” I said. “I guess it's almost a miracle, isn't it?”

He laughed, as he did nearly anytime I made a comment about our odd life on our Russian River valley farm.

“Yes son. I agree. This is certainly a miracle.”

~Kenword~