IRON MAN

to the family, but he was the only one to live, along with 4
sisters. His father was a poor man and as an only son, the chores
at home fell to him at a young age. After the third grade he was
kept at home to help his mother and sisters.

One of his chores was to hoe the very large garden which was
needed to supply the family with fresh vegetables and such for
canning for the winter. This worked okay with one small
hitch…every time a steam whistle was heard in the distance, a hoe
was found in the garden, but no little boy. This was taken care of
when his father got home that evening by a trip to the woodshed for
the usual corporal punishment. The next morning he would be back in
the garden. That is, until somebody blew a steam whistle. Results,
one hoe, no boy, and another trip to the woodshed.

It wasn’t long until he could not be kept in the garden at
all. His first job was as a helper in the boiler room of a nearby
cotton shirt factory. As he was hired as a helper, his main job was
cleaning and helping the engineer with repairs. As a rule, the
engineer took a short coffee break in the morning. He would send my
grandfather to the back door of a nearby establishment with a small
water pail. The cold-foaming beverage which filled the bucket
seemed to be an excellent appetizer for lunch. After a couple of
days two buckets were used, but the engineer got only one. I wonder
what happened to the other one?

Due to his love of steam, my grandfather was a rapid learner and
was soon able to hold down the fort by himself if need be. This was
fortunate, as the engineer liked to visit a nearby establishment
with swinging doors. His lunch break usually ended about 5:00, as
he staggered back to the boiler room to check out for the night. As
a rule, my grandfather, wound up filling the boilers and banking
the fires for the night. It was while on this job that he met a
young seamstress who worked at the mill. About three or four years
later they were united for life.

This job lasted only a short while, and then my grandfather
hired out to a man who had several traction engines, threshers and
sawmills. He was known to everybody as ‘Uncle Lewis’
Wotten. My grandfather helped Uncle Lewis run threshers and
sawmills and was soon running an outfit for him alone. About 1910,
they unloaded a brand new Geiser Mill and stored it as threshing
season was about to begin. Three or four years later he was to buy
it from Uncle Lewis, along with a thresher and engine and go in
business for himself. While working with Uncle Lewis he had a
colored helper nicknamed Uncle Dennis. On one occasion as they
ascended 9th Street hill nearby Laurel, my grandfather looked back
and saw Uncle Lewis approaching in his horse and buggy. He and
Uncle Dennis did not want the contents of one of the tool boxes to
be found, as Uncle Lewis was a very religious teetotaler. When
Uncle Dennis said

‘What are we gone to do now?’, my grandfather said:
‘Uncle Dennis, now don’t you blow that whistle because you
know how scary Uncle Lewis’ horse is.’ Uncle Lewis pulled
alongside and signaled to stop so he could check the engine, as was
his habit. Uncle Dennis ‘forgot’ about the scary horse, and
let go with a mighty blast on the whistle as my grandfather shut
off the throttle. Following a mighty leap into the air, a grip on
the hit with his teeth, horse, buggy and Uncle Lewis disappeared in
a cloud of dust. The villains continued the 3 miles to Uncle
Lewis’ home, which was where they had been headed. By the time
they got there the tool box was empty, but they were not, and
nowhere had they seen a splinter of the buggy or Uncle Lewis. As
they pulled into the yard they were greeted by a very sweaty horse,
a buggy with very warm wheels, and a still white Uncle Lewis. After
about 10 minutes of listening to the wrath of God, they went down
to put the machinery in the sheds while Uncle Lewis took care of
his horse. Uncle Dennis found some more of what had been in the
tool box and all was soon forgotten.

My grandfather soon realized that there was no money to be made
working for someone else. Piece by piece he bought his own
equipment and went into business for himself. This included the new
Geiser Mill he had helped unload several years earlier, which had
never been set up. This mill was a heavy built Geiser Mill with
rack and pinion carriage and friction feed. This mill was to last
him his lifetime as it was used by him until two years before his
death in 1960. Only God knows how many billion board feet of lumber
that mill sawed.

It was converted to a homemade cable feed carriage and belt feed
over the years, and although many threshers, engines, etc. were
owned by him at various times, it was the only mill.

When he left Uncle Lewis, old Uncle Dennis went with him. One
time while on a threshing job for a farmer who was known to be an
early riser, he decided to impress the farmer. He got up about 2:00
A.M., got dressed, and got breakfast, hitched up the horse and
buggy, went about 5 miles to pick up Uncle Dennis and drove the 20
some miles to the farm. As he approached the house in the early
hours of the morning he saw that the house was well lit by kerosene
lights. The farmer was standing on the porch with a lantern and as
my grandfather tied his horse he remarked, ‘Good Afternoon,
young man.’ Needless to say, this did not set well, but it was
not possible to say anything if he expected to get the job next
year.

Our bridges were mostly small ones, and not too dangerous, but
still sometimes not to be trusted. Most engineers would go several
miles out of their way to avoid one, if necessary. Only one man in
this area was ever killed in a bridge failure, and this was due to
his own carelessness. I plan on writing about this someday when I
get the facts. On one very short bridge with only about a 3′
drop to the small stream bed, my grandfather felt the engine do
down through the planking of the deck. The engine was left sitting
on the lengthwise girder on the ash pan. As there were no planks to
be had and many miles to go to get any place and no way to haul it,
it took some thinking. Being in a hurry, my grandfather hit upon a
bright idea. The big railroad jacks were carefully set and the
engine was raised until the entire weight was off of the bridge.
The cross cut saws were brought out and the middle section of the
bridge under the engine was sawed off on both sides. It was then
broken up for firewood and laid aside. Then the engine was
carefully lowered into the stream bed. The water was below the
grates so a fire was started and steam was gotten up. They they
turned the engine and ran downstream until they could climb the
bank. Then they ran back through the woods to the site of the
bridge. With the help of a cable, the wagons with the sawmill and
tools were pulled through the stream and then up the other side.
Then hooked up and went on their way. Nothing more was heard of the
incident. I wonder what the county thought when they found the
middle of the bridge gone?

On another occasion my grandfather wanted some barley for my
grandmother so she could make some homemade brew, since it was in
the middle of the prohibition. Since he was threshing barley for
this farmer, he asked him if he could buy a bushel when they were
through. The farmer, being a non-drinker, suspected the fate of his
barley and bluntly refused. My grandfather realized that he had
given his hand away and would not be able to sneak when they packed
up.

This being the last of the barley threshing for the season, one
of the men said, ‘what are you going to do now?’ With a sly
smile my grandfather replied, ‘watch me.’ As the last of
the barley grew near he signaled and every remaining bundle hit the
feeder knives in one big pile. At the same time my great uncle,
Uncle Pink, reversed the Geiser and shut off with quite a belt
cracking thresher jerking time. It was perfect, all of the barley
had disappeared into the thresher and no harm was done. When he
arrived at the next job he explained to the farmer what had
happened, and the first grain to come out of the thresher was his.
After the belt had been thrown several times the thresher was
finally freed up. Two and a half bushel of barley rolled out. The
best part of it was, it didn’t cost a plugged nickle.

He was very lucky in his lifetime, with few serious injuries and
lack of trouble with the law. On one occasion, near the end of
steam being used on the road, he was called on to do a job for a
man which involved running down some black top road. The law
against using a steel wheeled vehicle on a paved road had been
passed the year before, and he had to use a section of U. S. #1,
the main highway between Washington, D.C. and Baltimore, Maryland.
He had about 3 miles to go when he was stopped by a state trooper
on a motorcycle. The trooper informed him that it would be
necessary for him to go immediately to the magistrate. My
grandfather agreed but informed the trooper that he was low on
water and if he left the engine it would soon blow up. After quite
an argument the trooper let him go and appear in court the next
morning. The next morning they went before the judge and the case
was heard. The judge replied that while there was such a law on the
books, there was no law preventing a farmer from getting his wheat
threshed, and dismissed the case. My grandfather went back and
threshed the wheat and went home by the same route. I wonder how
long it took the state trooper to realize that the threshing was
being done for the judge?

Well, there are a few of the experiences as told to me by my
grandfather. There are many more, and if this doesn’t bore too
many people, I may write about some more later on. Anyone with any
comments please write to me and I will be glad to hear from
you.