Horsepower

It’s been a different kind of week on the Ross homestead.  After fourteen years of being greeted and shadowed by a lovely dog, it’s strange to have her gone.  The oddest part is that I keep hearing her.  I know it’s a trick of the mind, but sometimes when I get home from work, hop out of the truck, and head for the back door, I hear her tags jangling as she comes around the corner of the house to greet me.  It only lasts for a split second.

Sometimes I wonder if we own our animals, or if they own us.  Think about it.  If you have a house dog, they pretty much control your life.  Until toilets are invented for dogs, they will need to go outside, and we will drop whatever we are doing to oblige them, day or night.  Then, they have these nasty urges to roll on really smelly things like dead animals and manure, and after our initial reaction of disgust, we bathe them, and they return to the favored spot on the floor at our feet, or scrunched between our leg and the arm of the chair.  But we love our animals because they add so much to our lives.   

In this beautiful, rural, Wayne County setting where we live, many people are inextricably linked to animals—even dependent on them.  Particularly, the Amish.   Observing the Amish farming with horses, (something I can never get enough of), is an experience that repeats itself nearly every day as I walk, and I’m grateful for it.  Through them, I can watch my Grandparents working their fields, and even imagine it is my ten-year-old Dad standing on the rack at the front of the hay wagon, driving the horses.  It is no wonder that he loved these same views, and would often take drives in the country this time of year to watch the process and smell the hay.

Neighbors putting up the hay

Time moves on, and with it came tractors for the Mennonites.   It’s interesting to think about how our tractors are rated in horsepower.  I guess the switch from horses to gasoline engines had to have some kind of conversion factor, so the term horsepower was invented.  Even my little 1940 Ford 9N claims a whopping sixteen horsepower at the draw-bar.  That doesn’t sound like much when many of our riding lawn mowers have more than that.  Comparing that to real live horses though, is sort of baffling.  While watching those beautiful, powerful draft horses teamed up, plowing and pulling huge loads, and then thinking about my little tractor being equal to sixteen of them, I say, “No way.”  My little gray “work horse” could not begin to compete with that many horses.   Perhaps I’m missing something in the equation.   But speaking of tractors...

Farmers, collectors, and even children can get wound pretty tight over tractors.  John Deere or Farmall.  The banter is non-ending.  It goes like this…

“Green means go.  Red means stop.”

“Friends don’t let friends drive green tractors.”

“Farmer born, farmer bred, my tractor will never be red.”

“Fear no Deere.”

“Nothing runs like a Deere.”

“Nothing smells like a John.”

And it goes on and on...

At our little Mennonite grade school, we were among a bunch of farm kids, and without exception, there were undying loyalties to the brand of tractor each family used.   Some were big on Farmall.  For us, no tractor could compare to John Deere.  Our loyalty was set in stone.

They'll both get the job done.

Our closest neighbor—the one my older brothers worked for—was a John Deere man.  Leonard Troyer was a jovial and kind-hearted farmer with a large frame, and deeply tanned, muscular arms.  His line-up of John Deere tractors included the old two-cylinder variety.  Perhaps the credit should go to Leonard for the way the sound of an old John Deere is still music to my ears, and therapy for a frazzled mind.  Somehow, the rhythmic putt-putt-putt was so imprinted my young mind, that it is still a nostalgic pleasure when my neighbor, Lloyd Miller, fires up his old John Deere 520, and works his acreage just west of us.

We had a large square sandbox when we were boys, and there we “farmed” our little fields with toy John Deere tractors—at least we did until the cats took over.  Cats are not known for their extreme intelligence, but they do something really smart that sets them apart from all other animals.  They bury their stool.  It would be nice if dogs did the same.  The problem with this burial habit though, is that they seek soft soil or sand to do their business.  After the multitude of Hog Creek cats discovered our sandbox, they were in toilet heaven.  It wasn’t much fun to play in the sand after that.  So we moved our childhood enterprise down to Hog Creek where the sandbars behind the thick stand of giant horseweed provided ample room to till the soil with powerful little green tractors, accompanied by the well-practiced, mouth-produced sounds of a two-cylinder John Deere.

At school we got into nearly-heated arguments about our favorite tractors.  There were Farmall loyalists who enjoyed making fun of the John Deere “putt-putts.”  It didn’t matter.  We knew the John Deere could outwork a Farmall any day of the week, and weren’t afraid to proclaim it.  No amount of arguing could alter any opinions.

Nothing really changes for generations of farm boys.  After all these years, the banter still goes on.  There are more choices now, but John Deere still reigns supreme in the tractor world.  Of course, that’s a matter of opinion.  Unlike most other big names though, the John Deere company has never merged.

I’ll never forget the day that my love for John Deere tractors nearly got me in a heap of trouble.  One day when our family was at the Harold Bucher farm, (the home-place of my sister-in-law Margaret), I snuck out to the barn to sit on his John Deere.  I was probably about ten or eleven years old, and the tractor was in the upper level of the barn, with the front wheels pointed toward the far wall—maybe three feet from the wall.  I can picture this very well.  I loved that old tractor because it was a John Deere—a full sized tractor just like the little ones we played with in the sandbox—and It was exciting to sit on it.  

But… I just had to find out if I could turn the flywheel.  Remember, that’s how those old tractors were started.  I had seen Leonard do it many times, and probably Harold, and my brothers too.  So I crawled off the tractor, got hold of the flywheel and began turning it.  As it reached top-dead-center of the compression stroke, I could barely move it.  One more groaning heave, and the flywheel spun around on it’s own.  And the tractor’s engine sprung to life!  I had not considered that it might actually start.  I was just trying to test my strength against the wheel.

There was one problem with the tractor starting.  I didn’t know how to shut it off.  But that was the least of my worries.  As the tractor started, it began moving forward toward the wall, and all I could do was jump out of the way, and watch in horror.  Apparently Harold had parked it in gear, with the hand-clutch lever in the released position.  Makes sense.  Sort of like a parking brake.  But now what!?  In a second or two, the tractor would crash through the wall and tumble to the ground below, and I would be the worst kid who ever lived.  

It is impossible to describe the relief I experienced when the front wheels hit the wall and the tractor stalled out.  It still makes my hands break into a sweat as I recount that moment.

 

And I need to toss this in.   I knew I loved my farm girl before knowing her tractor history.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, but the very large Neuenschwander family—uncles, aunts, and cousins—pretty much all agree on color.  John Deere green.  It’s also gratifying to note that the first John Deere B purchased by the family patriarch, Jacob Neuenschwander, remains in running condition, and is owned by my brother-in-law.  

Horses have been used for farming for hundreds of years—perhaps thousands—and it wouldn’t surprise me if the same type of banter happens with them.  Belgian vs. Percheron vs. Mules.  The Amish around here use all these types of equines for field work and pulling large loads down the road, and certainly they have opinions about which is best.

Although I’ve never heard any discussions about it, I can tell you this much; Rudy, an Amish friend of mine, once bought a team of mules to work his farm.  Some believe mules are  a good choice because they have more stamina.  However, in Rudy’s case, he soon grew tired of a team of animals that had their own set of rules.  They pulled really well, he told me, but when they were tired of pulling, they stopped.  No amount of coaxing or threatening would change their minds.  He said he had no choice but to unhook them and head for the barn.  This is not a very satisfactory way to farm, so the mules were soon replaced by a team of Belgians.

Jacob and son Henry pulling logs from the woods to the sawmill with their team of Belgians.

Many of the Amish around here use Belgians, which range in color from blond to dark chestnut, but there are also many black, gray, and white varieties of draft horses seen in the fields.  I wasn’t sure what breeds were represented by those colors, so one day I stopped in to talk with Jacob.  Not wanting to interrupt his work, it seemed good to catch him during milking time, while he sat on his tiny stool, leaning into a cow, doing what he does twice a day, seven days a week.  He’d have time to talk, because milking cows is sort of like shelling peas.  It’s going to take a while, and you aren’t going anywhere, so you might as well have some good conversation.

Another neighbor, Henry, with his Percheron horses, mowing hay.

Jacob said the black and white draft horses are variations of Percheron—although dark, dappled gray is probably the best known color for that breed.  He mentioned that they get whiter with age.  That makes sense.  So do we.  

Knowing that Jacob and his brother Sam across the road both farm with Belgians,  it was time to find out which breed he thought was best.  (I was thinking of tractor discussions and brand-loyalty of course, so the question was loaded.)  

He grinned. “They used to say that Belgians were for show, and Percherons were for work.”   Now it was my turn to smile.  Jacob’s Belgians are handsome animals, and although an Amishman would never admit it, no doubt he has a sense of pride in them.  Perhaps what they “used to say” no longer applies.  Those who work with these massive animals are the only ones who know the difference.  Either way, for those of us who love to watch these gentle giants working, and marvel that even a child can guide them in the fields, it is a special pleasure to live where we do—a small town nestled in the hills near the middle of the world’s largest Amish population—Kidron, Ohio.  So long.

A beautiful team, unloading manure on Sam's farm.