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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