301 Louisiana Ave. Bogalusa, Louisiana 70427
On a clear spring morning the sound of the Farmall 30,as it
cranked on gasoline and converted to kerosene, could be heard two
miles away. The tractor had been purchased by members of my family
in the late 30’s to turn under a vetch cover crop that was to
rank for a mule drawn disk. It had introduced tractor farming to
our community of Pelican, in northwest Louisiana, and had powered
everything from a grist mill to a seven foot sickle mower to a
three bottom disk breaking plow that it pulled in its highest gear
without any noticeable effort.
My Uncle Baker always drove it. He had the physique and strength
of a weight lifter, and the old tractor was a good match for
him.
It was May 1945, and we were towing a combine, harvesting oats,
helping in a small way with the American farmer’s task of
feeding our people and the allies during the last month; of World
War II. For the benefit o International enthusiasts, the combine
was a number 62, a pretty heavy model with a four cylinder
continental engine mounted on the left side causing the left wheel
to carry more weight than the right one. A hired hand was tying the
sacks of oats and letting them slide down a ramp to the ground, and
another uncle and I were loading the sacks on a pre-war Ford
truck.
We were circling a terraced hillside where underground springs
sometimes developed, and when we reached the long low strip beneath
the last terrace, the heavily loaded truck found one of these wet
weather springs and the rear end settled comfortably down to the
axle. Uncle Baker pulled the tractor and combine along side us and
ran a long logging chain at an angle from the drawbar back to the
truck. He started out, towing the truck through the bog, when
suddenly the combine found what was probably the same vein of water
and its left side went down to its frame. In just seconds the rear
of the F-30 sank until its drawbar was well below the ground
surface. There was no way to disconnect the combine, and the chain
to the truck was tighter than a piano wire.
Then came the engineering, and a fabulous display of pulling
power. We chained a large fence post to each of the spoked rear
wheels (a dangerous procedure, admittedly, and in no way
recommended for novice operators). We all held our breath. There
was no other heavy tractor available for miles except a slow moving
old International 40 crawler that might not have gotten there for
several days, and winch trucks were practically unheard of then.
The bogged truck was the only one we had and getting our harvest
into the barn before nightfall, and possibly rainfall, depended at
that moment of the F-30’s manhood.
The tractor went into first gear, the clutch was cautiously
released, and the governor opened. The old engine responded with
that deep resonant sound the kerosene burner made when they got
their second wind, and somehow the tractor pulled itself up out of
the hole, at the same time towing the dead weight of the combine
and the truck through a tight bottomless mud. Just as the posts
came around the back of the tractor the rear wheels hit a slightly
firmer turf and Uncle Baker hit the clutch. The fence posts were
removed, the transmission went back into low gear, and the F-30
patiently rolled forward, lifting both combine and truck out of the
mire. Pound for pound, it was the most incredible display of power
I have ever seen.
I recently visited this land with my father, and he showed me
where a huge oil field truck loaded with pipe had lately hit this
same spring and had sunk until only the pipe and top of the cab
were visible. It took all the modern technology and power to
retrieve the truck. I remarked then that Mother Nature’s
emplacements (the spring) endure endlessly, from one generation
until another, as long as man’s bumbling antic’s don’t
disrupt them.
I still use this old tractor and am enclosing a recent photo
showing my son Whit driving it. He is the third generation to
perform useful work with this tractor. To my thinking, the F Series
Farmall’s have never been equaled when it comes to balance,
durability and economy. While most of these old machines have gone
the way of the cross cut saw and the small row crop farm, they were
giants in their day. Mechanized farming was in its sturdy youth
then, and those of us who grew up along with it will always enjoy
exchanging these pleasurable reminiscences.