Of course, weather forecasts are predictions, not certainties. On the day of our burn, the wind switched shortly after ignition and drove the flames a bit too close to the haystack. After hasty concurrence that caution demanded a wider buffer, Jim moved 35 - 40 bales while the tanker crew cooled the flames with sprinklers. Within a couple of hours, the conflagration died down (in fact, I made a quick grocery run and nearly missed it), but we maintained on-site vigilance and kept the tankers available through the night and most of the next day, before dousing the char with several thousand gallons of water.
The rabbits and skunks previously lodged securely within the pile have sought shelter elsewhere, and our utility trailer is heaped to capacity with scrap metal exposed by the fire. That load is a testament to Vern Fleming, the last Fleming to live on what is now our Prairie Island and whose ancestors homesteaded the place. Among the sundry Vern-contraptions found in the ashes are: heavy iron wheels welded to lengths of railroad track attached to monster gobs of concrete; galvanized water tanks welded together to serve as culverts or filled with concrete to use as uprights in constructions; leaf springs welded into something that might have been used as a harrow; a heavy frame for something globe-shaped, perhaps a bathysphere for exploring the depths of nearby bodies of water. (I ponder 20,000 Leagues under Gibson Reservoir, by Vern, a sequel to earlier sci-fi by Verne, of Jules fame.) We have been told that such surface treasures are but a mere sample of the iron wealth that was buried in vast trenches several years before we got here, a mecca beneath our hay stack awaiting someone with a yen to mine. We have no such open-pit plans. We both are eager to forget the eyesore and to reclaim the site with something lovely and green: crested and sanfoin, bluebunch and vetch, needlegrass and clover, anything but scrap . . . after the deep heat from our project cools, that is.
That said, we hope to always remember the finest moment of the entire project, the moment when Jim's favorite old swather--unused for the past five years and retired only because the open, crow's-nest, pilot's seat was forbidden following melanoma surgery--roared to life. Its carburetor needed a bit of hand-delivered gas, and I was aware of Jim either praying or whispering to the engine as he finessed the throttle and choke, pushed the starter button for a breathless eternity, and hoped that his long-time friend would deliver. With a great clatter-banging of dry, weather-checked belts, whining under the load of wide-open throttle, the engine caught and then settled into its familiar purr. Jim was ever so proud to put the machine through its paces for the new owner, and it responded like a well-bred champion, first bucking energetically out of the deep wheel ruts where it had patiently awaited this phoenix moment and then tossing off some impressive moves: crisp 180-degree turns, decisive header up-sees and down-sees, reel spinnings, and sickle bar scissorings. I view the memory as irrefutable evidence that trustworthiness pays dividends, hope springs eternal, and usefulness add zest to life, especially for retirees.
Included are pictures of the burn (Thank you, Ebert for sharing your pics with us.), the aftermath ash, Vern's bathysphere, and Jim's trading stock.