Essay | Setbacks Are the Norm on My Small Farm

AMHERST TOWNSHIP, FILLMORE COUNTY — This afternoon as I was siphoning a diesel/gasoline blend out of my 1985 Ford F250 diesel truck into six empty kitty litter containers, I had time to look back and reflect on the numerous other, no-less embarrassing setbacks made trying to manage our little homestead in the Big Woods. Most of the frustrations involve things with engines. 

The worst breakdowns are the ones that occur with other people’s equipment. These breakdowns are higher risk, as you don’t know the equipment as well as your own. And they are more painful because you end up buying new parts for stuff you don’t own. 

Before I fully appreciated what a carburetor was, I found myself tightening the bolt on one because fuel was leaking out and into the freshly tilled soil of my garden. A couple of twists of the wrench and crack, the bowl was broken and I was buying a new motor on a machine I didn’t own.

More recently, I borrowed an old square baler to put up a little hay for our donkey. Next time I’ll certainly remember to disconnect the PTO prior to swinging the unit back into travel mode to avoid the bent PTO shaft that can result in a tight turn. I don’t have to recite my phone number to the folks at the local implement dealer anymore.

More painful than breakdowns are things that never work right to begin with. I purchased a restored Farmall H from my uncle, approximately 8 years after it had been restored and left to sit idle – the natural state of being for machines of that vintage.

As I tried to get the carburetor cleaned up and functional again, the starter switch stopped working. I installed a new switch. I got distracted with life and ten months later, resumed the effort but then the battery was shot. I picked up a new battery, just to have problems again with the carburetor. I started over and finally had some luck getting it to sputter a little before the starter switch stopped working again. I bought my second new switch but it didn’t fix the problem—instead, the starter itself had simply stuck. So, I continue to chase my tail from one problem to the next, never knowing what trick the antique will pull next. 

As a father, I constantly preach the daily sermon of “pick up your stuff” to the children. They hear it most when I see debris scattered about the yard.

Would I ever leave a metal rake hidden in the weeds with the teeth pointed up? No way. Would my kids? They would and they have. The lawnmower tire found it first before the blades finished it off. You can add two of my best garden hoses to the list of things the lawn mower has sacrificed. The near misses are too numerous to count. 

The diesel truck fiasco

Back to today’s error—while in town I pulled in to top off the tank before taking the truck back to the farm—a routine procedure I’ve successfully managed a hundred times. Today I grabbed the gasoline and didn’t realize the error until I was six gallons in. 

I did the double look over the shoulder to make certain nobody saw as I quickly re-holstered the black-handled nozzle. Suddenly my brain was functioning at full capacity again as I problem-solved my way out of the predicament.

Thankfully, this one was easy. The truck had two tanks. I fired it up, switched it to the unpolluted tank, and retreated to the farm where I could drain the mixed blend out and hope to start all over without further incident. If I hadn’t realized my mistake when I did, I might instead be writing a post-mortem for my truck.

My wife was out and about so I called and asked her to pick up 6 feet of clear plastic tubing with the very specific direction that it be “small enough in diameter to shove into a fuel tank.” She started to ask questions, but I insisted the “why I needed it” was irrelevant to her successful accomplishment of the task. Of course, she figured out the one likely purpose for the tubing by the time she returned home, as I assumed she would.

As I sucked on the clear plastic hose, eyes askew watching for the first sight of fuel so I didn’t end up with a mouthful, I was thinking of a story I heard from my grandpa many times as a child. He was on the side of the road somewhere between Minnesota and his winter retreat in Texas. Whether he had a malfunction with his truck, or whether he was helping share some fuel with a stranded traveler, I don’t exactly recall.

But I clearly remember him describing in detail the process of siphoning fuel out of his 1984 Ford F250 without the luxury of the see through tubing I was holding. The story always ended with his laughter at the fact that he pulled it off with the limited resources available and timed it just right to avoid a mouthful of fuel. I did, too, thanks to that little lesson from grandpa and the extra advantage of some clear tubing delivered to my aid. 

My children looked on as one by one I filled containers, amazed at how quickly they filled and uncertain where it was all coming from. They are too young to fully appreciate the science behind fluid dynamics, so I spared them the lecture.

Nevertheless, they now have a firsthand visual of how it’s done just in case they ever find it necessary to pull that memory from their file and duplicate the effort, in the event electric cars don’t first spoil the challenge.