SILO FILLING WITH STEAM POWER

by Eugene Hutchinson Mallory 2 (EHM 2)

     The brief mention to filling the silo in the journal gives little idea
what an impressive performance it was, at least to a little boy. The silo
itself was the largest in the neighborhood farms that exchanged labor. Fifty
feet high and twenty in diameter, it took a good crew and a good luck to fill
it in two days. All the other silos were easy one day jobs to fill.

     The great event was preceded by getting out the corn binder and getting
the field to be cut and opened up. The binder was ground driven by a "bull"
wheel and speed up gears. It was a heavy load for horses and the regular hitch
was for 3 or more horses. Father's big feed lot team could handle it alone and
did.

     After a liberal and intricate application of gooey caster oil to the
machine, the big horses leaned into their collars and all would spring into
life. The gathering chains zipped around, the sickle clattered back and forth,
and when tripped the mysterious knotter actually tied a knot.

     Then into the tall corn the rig would go, opening up lands cutting a row
and knocking down the inevitable two down rows necessary to divide the field.
The team would grab mouthfulls of green corn it went down before them. Soon the
whole show disappeared into the tall corn. The fun had begun and the stoop work
of gleaning the ears from the down rows was days away.

     The next act would be the arrival of the steam engine and the ensilage
cutter. The first sign would be the a cloud of black smoke where no railroad
ran, and then the hooting of the whistle. Finally, it would come crunching down
the road on huge iron wheels, two feet wide and tall as a man. Godfrey,
confident master of the iron beast, would pilot it into the driveway, the
cutter and the water wagon trailing behind.

     Setting up was a considerable task. The ensilage cutter was dug in and
staked and braced to resist the pull of the drive belt. An exacting task, as it
must be exactly oriented to line up the belt to the spot where the engine would
sit among the trees. The blower pipe sections must be bolted together in the
right combinations of lengths to put the goose neck at the right height above
the silo rim. A 3/4 inch rope was run over a pulley secured at the silo top and
the heavy pipe lifted by a single horse, usually Dan of the feed lot team. Not
all farm horses would work alone and have the power to lift the heavy pipe and
hold the weight steady. Up it would go, the goose neck sliding along the silo
and the lower end guided along the ground by a man. When it was finally
vertical, it was pulled up high enough to drop on the outlet of the cutter. The
goose neck guided by a man atop the silo and the lower end still in the hands
of its guider. The whole lift held by the docile power of the horse. A few
words to assure all was in order and to signal Dan to ease gently back and the
deed was done.

     Now the drive belt, 150 feet of heavy canvas belting spliced to an endless
loop, was rolled out to the previously spotted engine. The belt was crossed and
lifted over the 3 foot pulley on its engine. The pulley must turn on a steamer
for it to move, so the long canvas snake would stir in sibilant, sinister, life
as the engine backed to lift it off the ground. A quick shutdown and the engine
would be blocked and the final belt tension adjusted by a big jack and all
would be ready for a trial run.

     The nearly silent power of steam would spin the cutter up to the hollow
howl that would pervade the next two days. The running of the belt would be
critically examined. If the cumbersome engine was lined up to within an inch or
two, the belt would run true in the center of both pulley. Godfrey's skill was
demonstrated once more.

     Next morning, activity would resume with a vengeance. The engine must be
fired up and steam raised. The big belt was always put in a dry place at night
and must be brought out and put into place. Godfrey would be along with a
grease pail and an oil can 2 feet tall, all the time keeping a wary eye on the
water level in the boiler. If the level was too high, it would not steam
properly. Too low meant a damaged boiler, or even a disastrous and deadly
explosion.

     The inside crew, the trampers, would be hanging the distributing pipe,
which hung from the goose neck at the top, like the tail of a tornado. It was
just a long series of funnels connected by light chains. It could be lead about
to distribute the ensilage evenly. In use, it contained the miniature tornado
of wind and chopped corn. If allowed to clog, it could fill with hundreds of
pounds of silage and even break the chains and come slithering down on the
trampers.

     At least two in number, the trampers led the pipe and walked an endless
round next to the wall tramping the feed down tight to the wall. They also put
in the doors as the silo filled and they gradually tramped their way up from
ground level to 50 feet above. The doors were sealed with mud which was mixed
below and carried up in a bucket.

     While all this was going on, the coal wagon must be backed into place next
to the engine and the team shifted to the water wagon The water man soon could
be seen swaying back and forth atop the water wagon as he worked the long
handle of the pump, filling the wagon from the stock tank.

     The bundle teams were heading directly to the field as they came in from
the neighboring farms. Soon the first loaded bundle wagon would come in and
pull up to the cutters and one of the two spike pitchers would climb up on the
back of it. Godfrey would open the throttle and the two men on the wagon would
start raining down the heavy green bundles onto the feed chute of the cutter.
Another man would dodge the bundles and keep them as straight and even as
possible on the way into the voracious machine. The howl would deepen into a
stuttering roar and the job was underway.

     It was all gently competitive between the two on the wagon. They would dig
down to the bottom in the middle of the wagon and strive to finish first as
they worked back to the ends. The feeder below would try to keep up and survive
under the hail of bundles. Green and heavy, up to 50 lbs, it did not pay to
catch one across the forearms. No forks were used, the handlers just grabbed
and flung.

     In an incredibly short time, the wagon was empty, the driver loosed the
reins and was off at a trot to keep his turn. A new load, with pitchers aboard,
was waiting, and the river of corn was hardly interrupted.

     As a boy, I watched this from all vantage points, in the echoing vertical
cave of the silo, filled with a damp and aromatic wind, and from the feeder
table. To get clear of the noise, I would walk back to the engine, keeping well
clear of the deadly hissing belt. There I could see the piston rod and cross
head flashing back and forth driving the great cast iron pulley, all controlled
by the whirling balls of the governer. Almost silent compared to the roar and
howl at the other end of the belt.

     The only real sound was the confident chant of the steam exhaust in the
stack. Pook-a! Pook-a! Pook-a! It grew louder or quieter as the load changed,
but the steady rhythm never changed. The power was there waiting for the
whirly-gig governer to sense the speed and unleash the steam. Pook-a! Pook-a!
Pook-a! And the extra bundle was up the pipe. No problem.

     I now realize that I was watching a mature technology. It was the best
that ever was or ever would be in that way of doing things. Strong skilled men,
powerful trained horses, and the matchless power of steam in the belt. The
internal combustion engine would soon take over, but its roaring bluster would
never match the calm Pook-a! Pook-a! Pook-a! power of steam.

     The men and horses have yielded their bones to the earth and the steamer
is long melted for scrap, but if you listen, perhaps you hear the shouts of the
men, the snort and whinny of the teams, and the steady Pook-a! Pook-a! Pook-a!
of the steamer. I know I can!