Author: Alan Skeoch

EPISODE 556   THE SKEOCH FARM AUCTION…FERGUS “HOME” FARM OF NORMAN SKEOCH…a few memories

alan skeoch

    MEMORIES OF THE HOME FARM MASSEY HARRIS COMBINE HARVESTER

    DATELINE 1975

“ALAN, how would you like to take the Ford tractor and the side delivery rake…turn over the hay in the south field.”
“Love to…”
“Hay got a little damp in the rain…too wet to bail.”

That must have been in the MID 1970’s.  Uncle Norman (Skeoch) was running the Skeoch farm alone by then.  Uncle Archie had
died in the west.  Choked to death.  Which left Norman alone on the Fergus farm.  It was mid summer, beautiful day, smell of growth in
the air coupled with the perfume of new mown hay.  A gaggle of guinea hens ran here and there yapping to beat the band.

Uncle Norman surprised me that  day.  That was the first and only time he ever entrusted me with a farming operation.  Hell, I didn’t
even know how to start the tractor let alone guide the side delivery rake accurately down the windrowed timothy.   

“No problem, just
push the starter and put her in gear.  Do it now.  I’ve got to work on the combine.”

The combine?  Archie and Norman had pooled their resources back in the early 1950’s to buy what was then a brand new Massey Harris combine harvester.
By the late 1970’s it was no longer new.  The red paint of its halcyon days had faded to a rusty red hue.   The great hulking machine had lost its
novelty.  New combines had replaced this one.  Huge, self-propelled machines that could consume wheat, oats or barley fields as if they were morning
porridge in a lumber camp.

“Needs some repairs.”

Seemed odd to me that Uncle Norman was going to repair the machine with a big ball pain hammer.  But what did  I know?
So he began hammering as I drove down past the barn to the south field. Elated to be trusted.  Determined to ruffle up the wet hay as perfectly as
possible.  What a grand afternoon?  What a great job?  Could I do the turning twice just for the hell of it?  Best not.  So I returned to
the barn where Uncle Norman was pounding the Massey Harris combine as if it was some enemy in mortal combat.

“Job’s done, Uncle Norman.” , I was proud of myself…turned over a field of wet hay successfully,
“Harrumph1”  
“What’s up?”  Norman seemed distracted…but still had his good humour.
“Picked up a son of a bitching rock … bent the goddamn master cylinder.”

         Amazing how the Skeoch brothers could make cursing seems like fine English.

“Can it be fixed?”
“Not today and not with this goddamn hammer.”
“Rock?”
“Yep, still in  there…”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Nope…dead…dead as that guinea hen I hit with the mower…damn,damn, damn!”

So, while i was enjoying myself, Uncle Norman was trying in vain to attempt to harvest the oats whose golden tassels were waving in the summer breeze.

“What will you do?”
“Have to get a custom machine in to harvest the oat field.  Have to pay for that.  Farming can be a losing proposition.”

        DATELINE  1977

That comment made me think of another visit to the Skeoch farm.  Uncle Norman was in the stable and a big five ton truck
had backed up close to the stable door.  A boarding ramp had been lowered.  Painted on the side of the truck were
the words  “dead and disabled animals,  call ….”

“What’s up Uncle Norman?”
“Had to call the dead wagon…heifer in the barn got the bloat…blew up like a goddamn dirigible…dead…alfalfa, I think.”
“Bloat?”
“Happens once in a while with cattle.  if I had seen her I could have driven-in the bloat knife right into her gut and let the gas out of her.  Happened so goddamn fast
that I couldn’t reach her in time.  Now she’s wedged in the barn, blown up…take a look if you want….”

And there she was, Dead as a doornail, lying on her side at the stable door.  Huge.  Seemed too big for the doorway. Wondered if she
could be deflated somehow but Uncle Norman and the dead wagon man hooked her up with a cable around her back hooves and hauled her
through the door and up into the back of the truck.

“What happens  to her now?”
“Depends  how long she’s been dead,” said the dead wagon man.  Which  was not really a straight answer.
“Dead  loss to me, for sure,” responded Uncle Norman.

Farming is a chancy kind of business.  Lots of things can and do go wrong. Often.  I was a teacher…i.e. on salary… and it never occurred to me
that Uncle Norman’s income from farming must have been a pittance.  So small that the loss of a heifer and the loss of the Massey Harris
combine might have pushed him over the edge into near bankruptcy.    His expenses  were small.  For most of his life he was a bachelor
Never travelled much.  Couldn’t really because his truck was so badly battered that it raised  eyebrows on the road.  That condition coupled
with the fact he had four or five dogs as passengers, their heads jockeying to get in the open air from the passenger window.  There was no back window
making the truck rather chilly on winter days.  The dogs had torn up the bench seat so badly that there was more stuffing than leather.  Looked like a

        nest.  But he only needed to drive it into Fergus for a few sacks of grain ‘chop’ for the cattle.  And maybe a stopover at the Fergus Legion for

THE ORCHARD…A HIDDEN ARCHEOLOGICAL SITE

Up in the orchard archaeologists had identified the fragmentary evidence that ancient people…perhaps Neutral aboriginals…had once lived and laboured
on Skeoch land.  NO. Reverse that comment.  The Skeoch’s laboured on what was once aboriginal ground.

 But that was supposed to be a secret lest souvenir hunters destroy any remaining evidence.

MANGER … HIDEOUT FOR A CASE OF BEER. MOLSON’S GOLDEN, 1979

       “Would you drink a bottle of beer, buckshot?”

That was the last time I remember seeing him alive.  He died in 1979 and when his Safety Box was opened  and the will read I got a big surprise.  My cousin John Skeoch….’long’ John Skeoch…and I
were named as executors in the will … not as recipients but executors.  We had to carry out Norman’s wishes.  He left the farm to his  brothers and sisters and their families.  Holy Smoke!
That meant one unpleasant task was placed in our hands.  We had to sell the farm.  How else could the farm and its contents be divided? It had to be converted to cash and then divided
equally as possible to the families of Lena,  Elizabeth, Greta, Archie, Arnold, Arthur and John.  And, in the cases where some had pre deceased Norman then that share had to be further
subdivided.   This was going to be messy.  

        THE MASSEY HARRIS COMBINE 

Today,  one memory of that ‘executing the will’ ordeal stands out in my mind.   That Massey-Harris combine harvester.

    Who owned it?  Was it Uncle Norman’s?  Or Uncle Archie’s?  Well, it belonged to both of them.  So in order to avoid family squabbles we decided that whatever we got from the machine

    at the auction then that amount would not be divided up but go directly to Uncle Archie’s surviving family members.  Seemed wise at the time.  But wasn’t.  

“Next is this Massey Harris combine harvester.  Not running right now

so you are buying it as is.   Open bid?”

Silence. No bidding. Eventually the scrap man bid around $40 for the machine…might be worth $100 in the scrap yard but it would cost quite a bit to get it there.

The $40 satisfied no one.  We would have been wiser to have avoided trying to be nice guys.  Got us only anger. Being executors in a will where there are many

people to satisfy is not easy.  And sometimes things being sold have higher emotional value than market value.   

    THE CAST IRON PIG SCAULDING POT

To avoid dispute I did what I thought was an honourable thing.  

To avoid trouble I returned it to the farm auction and was resolved to buy it back at whatever

price.  Bidding was spirited  I won.  That honourable effort got me no praise.  Instead a member of the Fergus Legion got really angry with me.

“Norman brings this cauldron to our corn roasts every year…has done so for decades.  It’s ours”

“Then why not bid for it?”

“Who do you think was bidding against you.”

“Why stop?”

“Price went too high.  But that is our pot…need it for the corn roast.”

I said nothing but just loaded it into our truck.  Seemed being honourable was not a good idea.

THE REAPER WAS NEVER FOUND

Somewhere buried in a fence row must be the ruins of the Skeoch Reaper, made famous

The Skeoch farm, our ‘home “ farm in Nichol Township, Wellington County, dated back

to 1846 give or take a year or so.  The stone house was built around the turn of the

September 7, 1958

Tragedy struck today when  we came upon Walter Helstein unconscious  on the trail with an alder spike driven through his hand.   We think he was

lying there for an hour or two with this very serious wound.  He was much older than the rest of us so followed distantly behind sometimesl

so his absence was not a problem.  Walt always caught up never failed to do his part of the job.  We were a good team I felt.  To see him lying there

We revived him and helped him get back to our campsite where the wound was

washed and bandaged.  Walter took some  sulpha pills to numb the pain.  Not sure if that works.  Pain is severe.  We were afraid this  would happen.

 Walter had  a habit of stepping on moss covered windfalls rather than stepping over them.  Slippery rotten windfalls are dangerous. 

Walter has  been with us for the whole summer which surprised us all for he seemed  too old and too out of shape for the kind of work we were

doing.  But Walt persisted and turned out to be a joy to work with.   He is 40 years older than me yet we worked as a team blazing trails that

criss crossed some very nasty parts  of this wilderness.  

Walter must get to a hospital before infection sears  ub,. We radioed  an SOS to Austen Airways in South Porcupine.  Contact failed.  Weather is bad with

heavy cloud cover.  Doubtful if the Beaver could find Kapik Lake so fogged in right nowt…so small…especially when he ceiling is so low.   Nothing we could do as nightfall arrived.

  We made Walter as comfortable as possible and fired up the tinware stove.

A terrible picture but maybe that makes it more authentic. Walter was badly  hurt.  Sorry about  the picture. My camera was finished…so I include 

a better picture of Walter Helstein.   He was a good man who ‘was just getting by’ in a hard world.

We were helpless.  Hoping that Walter would be rescued. Made radio contact but plane was grounded in fog

and rain.   

We  left Walter in the tent for the day  and set out  to find our last underground conductor.  We failed to find it.

Distance covered   34,000 feet

September 8, 1958

Walt was in severe pain all night. Moaning. By morning his hand was swollen and red fingers of  infection were apparent.  Walter’s natural good humour  ended.

:”THE JOB IS OVER!”

Everything came to such s brief ending.  “ Al, you fly out with Walter — get an ambulance or a taxi to the Timmins hospital. “

  Walt was stretched out in the back.   Both of us were finished.  As soon as we landed at South Porcupine Walter was taxied to the Timmins hospital.

Sad.  I would never see Walter again. Never tell him how much I had enjoyed working with him.  There was not time for farewell..

The taxi was waiting as soon as  we got tied  to the dock.  I  could see the pain in  Walter’s face as he waved good bye.

There are some people that are unforgettable.  Walter Helstein is one such person.  

  Look Closely  Walter is standing in water…over his boot tops.  His blazing axe in his hand and  his tea cup  tied to his braces with the stub of  a cigarette in his mouth.   Much of our summer was

spent in such conditions.   After his tragic accident I never saw him again but heard  that he spent 8 months in the hospital. 

Although this picture  does  not look like I was enjoying myself.  And  much of the time i was not.  But actually I was quite proud  of myself.

I had survived  just threw two temper tantrums when the job got unbearable.  Walter never threw a tantrum but

instead  laughed  at me along with Floyd  and Bob.  Actually I came to love the job…to love the battle with nature…too find I could  survive

in the worst of conditions.   My success in this job led to another six years working for Hunting Technical and Exploration Services.

In  retrospect the jobs were a great privilege…something that few human beings will ever experience.  

By the end of the summer Walter and I had  walked and blazed 206.3 miles on our own

trails through the bush.   That is almost the distance  from Toronto to North Bay.  Hard  to

believe?  

The clerk in the Airport Hotel hesitated  when I  asked for a room for the day only.  Little wonder…two months growth of hair and beard, pants 

patched with Canvas, Gum rubbers with my socks poking through holes and a  packsack that looked like  I had been living rough for a long time (which’

is true come to think of it.)  He relented.  I Had my first real bath of he summer and then called  Timmins airport to reserve a flight this evening.

What was Ito do with the skull and antlers of that bull moose we found earlier in the summer.  Unlikely to be loaded on an Air Canada flight.

.  I asked CN Express  to ship the skull along with my baggage back  to Toronto.  Tricky kind of baggage.

  Phoned  home…mom and dad surprised.  “Be home tonight.”

Then got a shave, haircut and  a big ice cream sundae.

Bob and  Mack arrived shortly after 12 and we loaded our equipment in the Land  Rover. which had  been stripped of all easily detached

equipment…hub caps and spare tire.   Bob  drove me to Timmins Airport where I got my first restaurant meal since July. 

I boarded the Viscount just as the sun was  beginning to set on the western horizon. “Would you like a Peak  Freen biscuit and glass

of lemonade, sir?”  Wow!  This was  going to be a great flight.  I nursed the lemonade for a long time and just nibbled  at the shortbread…loving

them both. 

We landed at Sudbury, then North Bay and  finally Toronto about mid night.  What a greeting.  Russ Vanstone, Red Stevenson, Jim Romaniuk and

my brother Eric  along with mom and  dad.  Eric  had a huge hand printed  sign saying “Go back, Al.”  Jim Romaniuk asked about the

lonely hearts letters.  “Let me have them Al, Might find a girl friend  there.”  “Try the girl from Florida with the pencilled note…she’s ready to

move up here if you send her the fare.”   Russ drove us all home to our place where mom and  dad 

had prepared  all  kinds  of food.  After that I fell asleep in a real bed.

 

September 9, 2019

Dr Paterson phoned early in the morning.  “Can you come to the office, Alan, maybe help with the results…there are things we need to know urgently.”

So everyone was gathered around the aerial photos hoping I could remember where the top anomalies were located.  I am not sure how much

help I could provide.  “McIntyre Mines  want to know right away.”  That comment reminded me that our summer living rough was really a big secret.

I really could not spot all the anomalies where we got high readings but did the best I could.   Dr. Paterson was very serious and professional…a bit

intimidating.  I am not sure that he knew my job had been swinging a blazing axe most of the summer.  I certainly did not say that.  I did put a word

in for Walter Helstein hoping that the company would help  out or totally pay his medical bills.  Not sure what happened to Walter but heard by

the grapevine that he never fully recovered.  Floyd told me later that Walter spent 8 months in the hospital.  Some danger he would lose his arm.

 That may have been hearsay though since our company had wound up the Groundhog River job  Miners are nomads.  When a mine is closed they

 There was one

nice outcome of that last meeting.  Dr. Paterson looked  me in the eye and said, “How would you like a job next summers an operator-Technician on

a job we have lined up in Alaska?”  Wow!  Alaska!   “

my answer was short and simple.  “Count me in.”

THE BUSHMAN’S THONG

What about the BUSHMAN’S THONG?  Good question, .   I am  very proud of my Bushman’s thong.  IT still hangs on my Boy Scout shirt

in the cellar at the farm.  Reminds me of that summer of 1958 every time I see the shirt and Thong.  I know this diary sounds rather juvenile.

ALAN  SKEOCH

MARCH 2019

August 27, 1958

I woke late tonight with a funny feeling.   Did not know why for a few moments.  Admired how the moon lit up the inside of our tent.  Then a cloud passed  by

blotting out the moon.  Only it was not a cloud.  it was the bear…he was on the other side of the tent wall…maybe three feet from my body encased

in my sleeping bag.  His  shadow blotted  out the moonlight.   I held my breath.  Then his  shadow just moved  down the tent wall and out of our

lives.   He stole no food  that night.  Probably he could smell us and I am told bears  do not like the smell of human beings.  Our smell was particularly

strong that night.

In the morning we tore apart Base Camp #1 and  packed everything on the dock and  shoreline.  Late in the afternoon the Beaver float plane arrived and was  

loaded for the short hop to Kapik Lake a  few miles to the west where we set up our new  Base Camp.  What a difference.  The new camp is  nestled in a climax forest 

of birch  and poplar trees high on a hill where  fresh  wind blows. Not so many flies resulted.  We were out of the swamps.  

A strange thing happened the day we left Base Camp #1..   Something not really  relevant but strange all the same.  Our makeshift dock began  to attract great clouds of

deer flies.  Deer flies are nasty creatures that like human  flesh and human blood.  Chevrons on their wings. They had  been torturing us every day since our arrival.  Yet this

day, August 27, 1958, they were  not biting.  Instead they were clustering in pods under the dock.  Wedging themselves into a great pack of their brethren

and dying all pressed together.  Hundreds of them, maybe a thousand.  Made no sense but it is a clear unusual  memory.  We did not try to dissuade them  from this  mass suicide.

We had a new employee arrive to replace Robert Hopkins.   Mack Deisert is  a tough man who is familiar with bush life.  Also an expert on heavy mining tools.  For a time he worked  underground

in the gold  mines of Timmins.  Why he no longer was a full time miner became evident as we talked around the camp fires.  “There were all kinds of  ways to

high grade gold from the  Timmins mines.  Lunch pails worked  for a  while but stealing gold that way was a little too obvious…small amounts  under fingernails or in false  teeth specially

made by local dentists.  Some gold was smuggled out in shoe  heels…sounds stupid  I know but remember just an ounce of gold  was worth money…high graders  got 50% of the face value of gold.  Lots of buyers in Timmins.  A miner or a shift boss sees a streak of raw gold

in a hunk of rock…not common but occasionally  appears…he  slips a chunk in his pocket then  gets to a place where he hammers the chunk and get smaller piece with more gold…then has to figure how to

get it out.  A wink to a foreman might do  it.    Most of the high grade gold is ground down right in the mine.  A miner comes upon a vein with raw gold…  he just chips  out a chunk

knocks of the crap and keeps a bit of gold for himself. Small pieces are easy to hide.  Think ‘body cavity’. Some say millions worth of high grade gold hidden and  sold in Timmins.  Miners today  are checked by security guys

every shift.  Big signs in the mine condemn high graders.   Those  signs would  not be up if there was not a problem.  Illegal  gold…common knowledge  about 

who to contact.”  Mack seemed to know a lot about high grading gold…maybe he got caught and that was why he took a job with us.  Or he was just telling a good

story around  a campfire.  Whether his stories were true or not , Mac was certainly an  entertaining character.  

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MACLEAN’S MAGAZINE, 1950 “FIRE A SHOTGUN DOWN TIMMINS MAIND STREET…YOU WILL HIT HALF A DOZN HIGHGRADERS”

DEAR DIARY

 To Mack Deisert a blazing Axe was  child’s play.   He was unlikely to hurt himself for he knew

the consequences  of a wilderness injury.   Mack considered  our job an interesting interlude where he could

pick up a few bucks in a week or so.  Strong as an ox.  Wish he was with us earlier.s

Sometimes posture reveals much about a person.  Take a look at Mack leaning against the bush plan.

“I heard you need a man for a week or so?  I’m available.  If not, I’ll fly back to South Porcupine.”

Supper was special.  Fresh food.  We dined on veal cutlets, string beans, potatoes, tea and ‘fresh bread’.   Our bread was soon stale…turned dry  

or mouldy…good bread got very 

crusty as time wore on in camp.  Mouldy  bread  was garbage.  Dry bread was usable even if hard as a gold brick. The  way to soften dry bread up

was a French Toast concoction we made regularly…water, powdered milk, a couple of

eggs while they lasted, some butter and a hot frying pan.  French  toast could be stretched out and become a bush lunch when lathered with

peanut butter.   Tasted really good.  We could do the same thing with porridge.  Hot in the morning.  Then a slab of cold porridge oats as a jelly like lunch. How?

If firm enough the cold  porridge could also be lathered with peanut butter.   All this was  washed down with tea boiled in a

fruit can tin with a wire looped over so the billy tin and then hung on a stick over an open fire.  When we  ran  out of real tea  we used Labrador tea, a

local plant whose leaves were fuzzy on the bottom. Easy to  find. Questionable alternative. No alcohol on the job.   Beer would weigh 

far too much anyway.  Although Floyd did sneak a mickey of Scotch which he shared equally as if it was liquid gold.

August 28, 1958

Rain…wonderful  rain.  So  we got a day of rest…well not quite that for we had to get our new campsite ship shape.  Two tents put up fast

lest the rain get to our sleeping  bags.  Then a new feature. We had to cut and split birch firewood as summer was over. Frost on the pumpkin as

Kapik Lake is not

big, just enough room for the Beaver to take off and land.   We were very surprised to discover other humans had preceded us.

“What’s that over on the other side?” “Looks like a canoe.”  Sure enough, some

person  had abandoned  a canoe on the lake.  No sign of a cabin or campsite.   We rescued it. complete with

paddles and had  transportation for leisure evenings to tour the little lake.  Maybe this was here for fly in fishermen.   Maybe Kapik Lake 

was full of fish.  Little good that would do us for we had no fishing gear.

Kapik Lake was inhabited by some strange mole like creatures on one of the little islands and a family of Loons

who serenaded us regularly.

Maybe Kapik Lake was one of those fly in fishing lakes that rich  people use which came complete with a cook to fry up

whatever they catch.  Our use of the lake was far less fancy.   Rich fishermen, if hey arrived while we  were there, would have

been flabbergasted at our basic diet of porridge.  I cut these cartoons our of a local paper after the job  was over.  Made

me laugh.

Walt put the tea bags in with our pork and beans tonight which gave us all  a good laugh.   Then Walt asked “Do you want to

to know how to speak Eskimo (Inuit is term today)?” and proceeded to teach us the language which I think he made up as he went along.  Then again

he did work as a diamond driller at Rankin Inlet. 

August 29, 1958

Walt and I cut line south 221 degrees. Easy work this time because the big trees shaded out the brush.  What a luxury…we could slap our

axes on one side of a big poplar then the other and move by easy  line of sight.  Summer was over suddenly and the trees were changing colour

The bush forest was becoming a land of red and gold.  The negative side of this season change was  the arrival of cold  weather.  All summer

we had been complaining about the hot  sweaty days.  Now we complained about the cold.  Bonus was big time.  Far lfewer flies…none at times.

Distance covered   12,000 feet (easy day)

August 30, 1958

Rain again.  Spent most of the day in our  sleeping bags.  I planned  my short term future.  University bound.  Thoughts of the University of Toronto made 

me very nervous.  Dad was  a tire builder and mom was a seamstress.  Most my other relatives were farmers.  So the prospect of  a university education

was novel and made me nervous not that I told anyone.   My good friends Russ and Jim would be doing the same thing and  were probably nervous as  well.

Money made on this job would pay my first year fees of $400.  Some friends wondered why I took the job.  Two answers.  First, because I loved the job.

Second, to pay university fees of $400 per year as non resident “city boy”.

Our radio weather report warned of heavy frost tonight so we started to assemble our new air-tite wood stove.  The hole in the tent left by the bear was the exit 

point for the stovepipe.   The big birch trees in this  climax forests means we have lots of excellent firewood that splits with ease.   Comfort!  And the smell

of the wood  stove is like the best perfume imaginable.

The only bad  news today was that our fresh  meat had already gone bad.  It would not pass the nose test.

September 1, 1958

Cold  … really cold all day.  Just above freezing which meant the raindrops on the forest leaves were like little ice daggers penetrating our clothes.We 

spent the day extending Bob And Mack’s trail to the northern anomaly.

Distance covered   33,000 feet

September 2, 1958

Another long hard  12 hour day.  We finished blazing our trail to where we figured  the anomaly was  located then did the survey with the Ronka and magnetometer.

My gum rubber boots have holes big enough for my socks to poke through which means I am working every day in wet feet.   Each night we pull off our boots

and  peel down the wet socks then massage our feet.   Bad feet would mean no work.   

Distance covered”   37,000 feet  (about 7 miles)

September 3, 1958

Another brute of a storm night and day.  The tent is  billowing in the wind like a great hot air balloon.

September 4, 1958

Bob and I finished  the north anomaly with both the Ronka EM unit and the magnetometer.

In the evening Walt and  I stalked  a crane in the shallows of Kapik Lake then stayed  out on the lake to watch  the sun set.  Magnificent.

Distance covered    33,000 feet

September 5, 1958

We finished cutting trail to south anomaly then did reconnaissance survey with the Ronka EM unit and the magnetometer.   No conductor

was discovered.

Well, we  are in food trouble.  All our staple foods have  been  consumed…bread, meat, potatoes,  fruit and butter.  So we have to make do with

what we can concoct which tonight constituted a can of peas and  carrots, big pile of  rice topped with bacon fat gravy and followed by cookies

for dessert.

Mack and Walt really entertained us  with fascinating stories of the ‘high graders’ operating in the Timmins gold mines…Dome MinE Company and  MacIntyre Mines, etc.

Distance covered   32,000 feet

September 6, 1958

Stayed awake all night as lightning flashes and  thunder made  sleep difficult.  Very dramatic.  We kept the wood fire burning most of the night and as a result

felt really cosy in our tent.   In the morning I began packing my rucksack for the job is nearly over.   Trans Canada Airline has Viscount air service to Toronto which

sounds exciting.   This was my last day as  cook so  I made a large stew of whatever odds and ends  I could find including the bacon rind on our slab of pork

sowbelly.    Not such a bad  dinner.   To give it a little more body I slipped in a  cupful of rolled oats.  Inventive.