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Nothing Beats the O1' Case
Case combine cut wheat and left sweet memories
By Harry Macomber
I still marvel at the invention of the sickle bar and reel. Those innovations enabled the grain binders and combines to harvest the golden grains we grew on our Michigan farm in the mid-20th century.
I'd sit on the old McCormick-Deering 10-20's seat as it pulled and powered the combine in low gear, almost at an idle, while the heavy Case combine trailed behind me, and devoured the tall stems of wheat. The sickle knives created their own unique sound and rhythm, so quiet and smooth - and deadly - in their task of slicing anything standing in their path. Age and wear would eventually alter their smooth motions to a loud clatter through years of use.
As I watched the grain fall to the canvas behind the sickle, laid down by the silent slats of the reel as it slowly turned above, it occurred to me that the sickle did the dirty work. It unmercifully cut the once-growing, living wheat. The reel seemed gentle by comparison. Just as a soldier eases a dying comrade to the ground, the reel softly, quietly laid the once-tall grain onto the canvas below. From there, the unknowing stalks were a split-second from total destruction. The canvas was striped with thin, wooden slats and seemed oblivious to its part in the deadly work. Continually moving, always upward, it threw its grain into the flailing arms that lay hidden just out of sight.
In the early 1950s, my dad purchased a 6-foot Case combine, looking for the biggest metal thresher that he could find. Wider, larger and much taller than the neighbor's Massey-Harris or John Deere 6-foot combines, the Case was so big and heavy that the tongue holding it to the rear of the tractor had to be welded and reinforced several times during its tenure on our farm.
Balanced on two large wheels, the combine pushed the old 10-20 slightly sideways when we turned on an incline. It did do a wonderful job of cleaning the wheat, however. We didn't get too much chaff back from the mill after drying our load, but it took more than an hour each morning for Dad to grease the dozens of zerks that dotted the gears, chains and pulleys on the larger combine.
A big, gray Wisconsin stationary engine sat on top of the combine. I don't recall the horsepower, but it took someone with a strong arm and good balance to hand start the engine. One long lever beside the hopper started the contraption, instantly forcing it to hum, shim and shake by lowering an idler pulley onto the drive belt.
In spite of the constant dust and noise, I loved to operate the big, lumbering machine. If I were driving the combine, I'd gladly stay in the field and miss supper while Dad and my brothers milked and did chores. During my mid-teens, Dad finally let me operate the combine alone. Wheat was our "cash" crop, so we sold most of it, only saving a bin-full in the granary for the chickens and next year's seed.
Morning dew was a daily occurrence in lower Michigan where we farmed, and the daily moisture dictated our schedule. Combining couldn't start until 11 or 11:30 a.m., so we usually only were able to make a round or two in the field before dinner. As the day wore on, the crops got dryer, and the dust that drifted up from the moving combine grew thicker. We carried a short broom for the dust, which we stuck into a slot at the top of the hopper. When we stopped to unload the grain, as part of our routine we swept off the hot motor where chaff built up. Each summer, chaff that built up caught fire on the combine's hot engine and occasionally burned some farmers' combines as well as part of their wheat fields, but Dad was definitely a preventive-maintenance person and taught us how to avoid such danger.
The evening dew began to settle as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. About 7:30 p.m., we began to hear the subtle difference in the motion of the combine as the dew increased. The motor worked harder as the slender stalks became increasingly damp, and by then it was time to quit for the day.