EPISODE 556 THE SKEOCH FARM AUCTION…FERGUS FARM OF NORMAN 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