Month: August 2024

Begin forwarded message:

From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: Fwd: EPISODE 177 THE MCCORMICK REAPER PROJECT , CIRCA 1981

Date: November 28, 2020 at 7:24:15 PM EST

To: Eric Skeoch <ericskeoch@rogers.com>, Eric Skeoch <ericskeoch@hotmail.com>

Begin forwarded message:

From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: EPISODE 177 THE MCCORMICK REAPER PROJECT , CIRCA 1981

Date: November 25, 2020 at 9:31:20 PM EST

To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>, John Wardle <john.t.wardle@gmail.com>

EPISODE 177    THE MCCORMICK REAPER PROJECT

Percy Lloyd purchased this repolica McCormick Reapeer and housed it in his small museum near Merlin, Ontario.

alan skeoch

Nov. 2020

 McCormick Reaper…scale model of the 1831 invention of Cyrus MCCormick as restored in our back yard and  chicken coop around  

1981…half a  century after 100 scale models were built to celebrated the century of  The McCormick Reaper.

THE ADVENTURE REBUILDING A  MCCORMICK  REAPER (CIRCA 1931, REPLICA  1931)

This McCormick Reaper may look primitive to readers when placed beside a picture of a modern

Combine Harvester.  When the picture is placed beside the original model reaper built by Cyrus

McCormick in 1831 this picture looks  quite sophisticated.   Technology changes.  And change continues

to happen.   

THE CYRUS MCCORMICK REAPER PROJECT

“Alan, aren’t you getting yourself into this project a little too deeply?  What do  you know about repairing…rebuilding….historic

machines?”

“True.  But I just could  not let the opportunity slip by.”

“But you are dealing with big shots…an executive with the Mellon Bank of New  York.  Why didn’t you

tell him you were a  high school teacher…a teacher of history?”

“I guess  I found it easier to say  yes than to say no.”

“Could be a deep hole you are stepping into.”

“I know…makes me a bit nervous.”

“How did  they get your name?”

“I think Peter Cousins at the Dearborn Museum … near Detroit …must

have passed my name along.  I had been doing all that research on machine

technology much of which was centred on the collection of  Henry Ford.”

“What are  you going to do now?”

“Well, first thing is to get the machine and bring it here.”

“Where will you put it”  Sounds  like a big machine.”

“I’m emptying the garage….the McCormick Reaper is about 

the size of  a car.”

“You have already  converted part of the garage and the attached

old mink house into a chicken coop.  Where will the chickens go?”

“Nowhere.  They will keep the Reaper company…lots  of room.”

“Alan,  our home is not a farm.”

“Lucky we have this huge lot…lucky we live on the old Mississauga

reserve with non conforming property lines…lots of room.”

“is this legal?”

“Perish  the thought.”

“Next step?”

“To get the reaper and bring it here.”

“How?”

“Gary Duncan has  offered to help. His  brother runs  a truck rental agency

and has offered a  five ton truck for Saturday.   Gary and i will drive down

to Merlin.”

“Merlin?”

“Small farm outside Merlin where the current owner of the reaper keeps his

collection of things.”

  (Note: Forgot his  name at the moment but remember him so well)

“How will you load the reaper?”

“Easy…the five ton has an  hydraulic  ramp…piece of cake.”

WHEN the rental truck failed on Highway 401 , we tuned to our Ford Van and a  little trailer as  an alternative.  Here is a picture with

a  different load  and  one of ours sons, Kevin, tightening up  the straps.   The McCormick Reaper was loaded successfully 

Unfortunately the ‘Piece of cake” was not that easy.  The five ton truck

broke down on the 401 before we really got out of Toronto.

My van would have to be the back as  Gary and I

headed for Merlin, a small town south west of Chatham.  East of

Windsor…east of Detroit.  

The cutter blades were designed  differently from the BellReaper…more like a saw than garden shears.

“How can you carry the reaper in your truck?”

“We’ll put it in the trailer.”

“I thought the  trailer was broken.  Didn’t it come loose and

end up in a swamp near Fergus”

“That was months ago.  Got it fixed.”

“Will the reaper fit onto a two wheeled homemade trailer?”

“Hope so.”

Gary  and I managed to get to Merlin without trouble.  The retired 

farmer (whose name I must find again) met us at his small two

storey drive shed where he kept the reaper.  

“Let me help get the reaper onto the trailer…two long planks should do it.”

“Really only need  one plank…the McCormick Reaper has only one bull wheel.”

“Between the three of  us we can get her on…winch attached  to the truck

and one of us on each side  so it does not tip. “

“Moving up  a foot at a time.  There.  Done. Now we’ll lash

it down…”

I remember clearly speaking with the owner of the reaper but cannot

be sure  how he got the machine. I think he said that the reaper had

been on display for  a time and then put into some kind of  storage shed

where it sat for decades.  

One  thought kept bothering me.  “How could such a delicate machine

have survived for such a long time?   No apparent invasion from powder

post beetle.   Almost intact.”

I found  out later that the reaper we strapped down on my trailer was not the

reaper everyone thought it was.  It had  not been built in 1831 by

Cyrus McCormick.   This  machine had  been built a hundred years later in 1931 to celebrate

the McCormick invention.  A replica.  One hundred scale models had been built

by the International harvester Corporation to celebrate the original inventor.

That knowledge was a bit of a relief.  I would  not be fooling around with

a machine that was  really historic.  There might be a few others around

somewhere  even though there was  no evidence of such.  If this had  been

the original McCormick machine it should have gone directly  to the Smithsonain

in Washington.    One McCormick replica did exist in the Dearborn collection.   

But perhaps the Dearborn Museum McCormick reaper was ancient.   Now

safely on display.  Protected.  In no danger.

In  short, I was more relieved that mine was a replica.  More pleased than disappointed.  I would not be restoring

the Mona Lisa.

“So what are you going to do with the money?”, I asked gently

“It will pay for my funeral.”

“I beg your pardon,”  I really was not sure I heard him correctly.

“When I die, this money will bury me…cover any funeral expenses.

I won’t be a burden on my family that way.”

There was not much more  we could say.  

With that touching comment, Gary and I revved up my Ford van  and

began our careful return to Mississauga.   It was a long day but we got

the reaper home and rolled  it into the garage (chicken coop) for the 

restoration to begin.

All the immediately visible parts  were evident but in the back of may mind

I wondered why we could roll it so easily.   Must be an  idling pulley or some arrangement

that kept it out of gear for moving around.  

The next discovery really knocked  me  for a  loop.

In this picture you can see the big but gear clearly…bevelled, sprocketed.

“Where is the bull gear?”

“Bull gear?”

“The main gear…the sprocketed bevelled  gear that converts the forward motion of the horse 

into power that drives the cutter bar.  “

That discovery was  made when we got the reaper to Mississauga.  There was ‘no joy in mudville’ that day.

Sure  enough the large cast iron bull gear was missing.  Any other missing part might  be replaced.  The

absent bull gear was a devastating discovery.  If I was  a real mechanic I would have noticed.  What could

i do?   How could  I get another bull gear.  Even if I toured every scrap yard in North America it

was unlikely I would find another bull gear.

In shock, I sat on a stool beside the machine.  Afraid to tell anyone.  Fully aware that such a gear could

not be found.  Nor could a  bull gear be made.  The pattern…the sand mould…had been dumped into

garbage back  in 1931.   Here i was half a century later telling a banker I could restore the reaper.  Telling

him a big lie.  I should have qualified my answer…should have said I would take a look at the job.

Instead i had agreed with him on a telephone call.  Thankfully there was no formal contract.  Maybe I could

weasel my way around the situation.  That would make me look like a fool of course…which was nothing new.

“Alan, where could you find another bull gear?”

“The only place possible is the McCormick reaper on display at the Dearborn Museum.”

“Well?”

“Well, I could  hardly go into the museum and remove the bull gear from a prize exhibit.  That

would be like taking Mona Lisa’s smile.   No one would let me do that.  I am in trouble.”

“You could ask Mr. Cousins.  Nothing  ventured nothing gained.”

“OK…I’ll give it a try.”

Ring, Ring , Ring

“Peter, this is Alan Skeoch from Canada, I have a big favour to ask.”

“Yes.”

“Would the Ford  Museum let me take the bull gear off the McCormick Reaper.  

I am in a real box here as that bull gear is missing and the only way I can

see around the problem is to get your display model’s bull gear and then

get it duplicated somehow.”

Pause…long pause…”Yes, I suppose that could be done.   Be careful, give  me a

few  days to get the clearance  then come down here a take the gear away for a month or so.”

“Great,  Peter, I will fly down on the week end.”

“Bring your own tools…I will get you a pass.”

So I was on my way.  One step at a time. I really did not know what i would do  with

the  bull gear if I did manage to get it off the reaper.   I would have to use it to make

a sand mould and then find some factory that would be able to pour molten iron

into the mould.   But that would be the next step.  First, I had  to get the bull gear.

One step at a time, Alan.   

“Marjorie, book me on a  flight to Detroit … need one night in a hotel

near Dearborn.   You were right.  Peter Cousins has given me a permit to

borrow the McCormick bull gear.”

“Do you know how to get it off the machine?”

“Nope.  But I will figure it out.”

“Alan, this project is costing us a  lot of money.  How much are you being paid?”

I asked  for $1,500 …same as  the Merlin farmer  got.”

“Our costs are mounting up.  How much do  you think it will cost

to get a new gear made?”

“I would rather not think about that.”

Marjorie did not say it directly but she was likely thinking about that old

song…’Fools rush  in where Angels  fear tot red.’   Cool down, Alan, one

step at a  time.  Get your tools together.

“Let’s see…a set of open ended adjustable  wrenches, a hammer…and most

important a spray can of nut loosening lubricant, a mechanics overalls…a peaked

cap to hide my eyes…a nice new red tool box…maybe an electric drill?

No, scrap the drill idea…too likely to do  damage…also need a sports bag to bring

the gear home.”

“Alan, can you bring a bull gear across the border?”

“Not sure…one step at a  time.”

Once again a dash of serendipity helped me on that score…more than a dash

of serendipity for that matter.   That will come later.

It was late August when I flew  to Detroit with my tool kid.  Flew  alone. No holiday. This

was business.   Booked into a fancy hotel with an interior glass walled elevator as  I remember.

No joy alone in an hotel.  Made me  feel sorry for sales executives.  Lone hotel rooms

always remind me of the great John Candy movie titled Planes, Trains and Automobiles…a

lonely lost gregarious man ever on he move.

Early next day I put on my overalls and baseball cap.  (Did promote the Detroit Tigers?  Can’t remember),

grabbed  my tool box and took a cab to the Food museum  where my pass was  waiting.  Smooth at the

beginning until I stepped across the rope fence around the McCormick  Reaper.  

I set down the tool box and begin  disassembling the reaper.  Carefully.  Soon a small crowd  

was watching.  Unusual to see a featured machine being taken apart.  Like a watch repairman I

set the pieces  in line.   I was scared.  What if I broke something.  I soon got down to the

bull gear.  Great brute of  a gear.  Quite stunning really.  A piece of art.   I managed to get

the shaft clear.  All that I had to do next was  slide the gear off the shaft.

Whoa!  I pulled…twisted…tapped.  Failed on all counts.  The bull gear was rusted tight

to the shaft.  By this time the crowd was bigger.   “Keep calm, Al…no perspiration…act like

you know what you’re doing.”

“She’s trusted tight, folks.   Old as the ages.”

Calm …Al…keep calm.

“Just a good shot of penetratng oil should help.”

And I gave both ends  of the bull gear a good soaking.

“Give the stuff a  moment or two to soak in, folks.  And watch this.”

At which  point, I grabbed the bull gear with both hands … twisted …the gear came loose.

Just for effect I spun the big gear and  it whirled like a spinning dervish down the shaft

where I caught it, set it down,..and…And did  I turn to the crowd and take a bow?  I wanted

to do that but  then carefully put the parts back on the reaper.  Packed up my tool box after

giving the can of penetrating oil a  kiss.   No, I did  not kiss the can.  I wanted to kiss the can

but that would reveal too much about my state of nerves.

Before leaving the museum I dropped in on Peter Cousins to thank him and

then another wonderful thing happened.

“have  you got anyone willing to make a casting for the new bull gear?”

I looked quickly at Peter.  Was he setting me up?   He  was a serous kind  of guy.

No light talk.  No  jokes.

“Not yet.”

“Here take this phone number.  This  fellow owns a factory outside Detroit. He might 

be able to replicate the bull gear for you.”

So there was another big step in the project.   As things  turned out the factory owner

was quite willing to make me a  new gear.  No small task.   I expected it would cost

a fortune.

“How much will that cost?”

“Nothing…do it as a favour for you guys on the other side of the border. “

“No, I will  pay.”

“Nope, won’t let you…call it a neighbourly act … done for that old grouch  Cyrus McCormick

who has been dead  for years.”

A couple weeks later the new  gear was made and somehow  I managed to get the

gear from Detroit to Mississauga without a problem.  Sam Markou, a good friend, was

in our truck when I brought the gear across the border.  We were sent to a special

holding area where I explained  the project to Canadian border guards.  They cleared

the import.  Not sure they cared much about it.  This new bull gear was small  potatoes in

the great scheme of things.  A blip.

I worked all that fall improving  the reaper.  Some wood parts had to be refashioned.  A whole

new reel windlass for instance.  Easy work though even for a left handed historian.

Word got out to the local  paper and  a feature story was  written.  Friends came by often

Even our boys, then quite small, showed  an interest.   The McCormick reaper project was

a  rock thrown in a  small pool.  The ripples spread out.  

Then the fateful day arrived and I built two gigantic wooden crates for the reaper and the

separated cutters and wooden bed.  All crated  up and shipped  air freight to the

Ulster National Folk Museum of Northern Ireland.

There it rests today.  At least i think it is  there.  We have never heard a word about it.

I am not sure that anyone in Northern Ireland gives a sweet goddamn about the model

McCormick Reaper.

Riding on the City of New Orleans  Illinois Central Monday morning rail  Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders  Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail  All along the southbound odyssey  The train pulls out at Kankakee  Rolls along past houses, farms and fields  Passin' trains that have no names  Freight yards full of old black men  And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles    Good morning America how are you?  Don't you know me I'm your native son  I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans  I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done    Dealin' cards with the old men in the club car  Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score  Won't you pass the paper bag that holds the bottle  Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor  And the sons of Pullman porters  And the sons of engineers  Ride their father's magic carpets made of steam  Mothers with their babes asleep  Are rockin' to the gentle beat  And the rhythm of the rails is all they dream    Good morning America how are you?  Don't you know me I'm your native son  I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans  I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done    Nighttime on The City of New Orleans  Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee  Half way home, we'll be there by morning  Through the Mississippi darkness  Rolling down to the sea  And all the towns and people seem  To fade into a bad dream  And the steel rails still ain't heard the news  The conductor sings his song again  The passengers will please refrain  This train's got the disappearing railroad blues    Good night, America, how are you?  Don't you know me I'm your native son  I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans  I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done