The
weather was hot and dry as we watched storm clouds, wishing for rain, but
dreading the possibility of hail. It was
like this every summer, but this year it seemed different. I couldn’t get my thoughts away from Cheney,
the new, exciting things I saw there.
That glimpse of a new world I experienced over the short time I visited, stuck in my mind. I kept replaying it
over and over.
We had various jobs to accomplish
around the ranch that I put my whole effort into, but my mind was otherwise
occupied. There were so many questions. Could I master college studies? Would I be able to make the basketball
team? How much money, over and above the
scholarship and job would I need? How
would I get along living with several other guys? Finally I realized my mind set was getting me
nowhere and the summer was slipping by.
I wanted to enjoy this last time with my family as “me”, and not some
college guy. During these next college
years I felt sure I would loose touch with much of the day to day events that
we had shared as a family. With that bit
of logic I started to focus on the activity around me and the work to be
done. Summer dreaming was set aside for
real summer time fun.
Grandpa wanted to build a dam in the main
canyon east of the shop building. There were springs in the bottom of the
canyon that would feed fresh water into the pond if held back by a dam. A tall dam would hold back a lot of the
runoff water during the year. In
addition to the snow melt I have seen a roaring river in the canyon after a big
rain storm. We would have to provide a
spillway so the dam wouldn’t fill and wash out.
A channel leading from slightly below the top of the dam, along the side
of the canyon and gradually reaching the canyon floor below the dam would take
care of the spillway requirement.
Work on this project started
one day as Grandpa assembled a large braking plow, a fresno and a team in the
bottom of the canyon at the dam site. First he hooked the team to the plow. I walked behind the plow, keeping it upright
and pointed in the correct general direction.
This was like trying to control a yearling steer. The plow would hit a rock and jump out of the
ground. I was fighting it every step of
the way. Grandpa was driving the horses
and they were straining with the load and moving at a fast pace. We were ripping the bottom of the canyon above
where the dam was to go. Gradually we
worked up on the edge of the canyon where the soil was softer and had fewer
rocks. When Grandpa decided we had
plowed enough, he pulled off to the side and unhooked the team. I was ready for a rest and the team looked as
if they needed one too. That would have
been a good work out for a football player.
After every one got their wind back the team was hitched to the fresno
scraper. It was a metal scraper that
gathered up the dirt and held it in the C shaped bowel behind the 5’ long
blade. A long handle extended out the
back that the operator held to control the angle of the scraper blade. Lifting up on the handle would cause the
scraper to dig deeper. Pushing down on
the handle would have the opposite effect. When
the scraper had a full load the handle would be pushed down and held as the
load was scooted over the ground to the spot where it was to be dumped. To unload the dirt the handle was raised high
until runners on either end of the blade drug and rotated the scraper bowel, so
the dirt was dumped.
The Fresno scraper was
invented in 1884 and built in Fresno California, thus the name. Thousands of “fresnos” were made for use in
agriculture, canals, ditches, and land leveling. They were even used on the Panama Canal. Many of the early workmen would tie lines from
the team together and then loop them around their back while operating the Fresno
handle with one hand and driving the team with the other. We drug the dirt loosened with the plow to
where we formed the base of the dam.
Grandpa drove the team and I wrestled the handle of the scraper. I wasn’t ready for the one handed technique. It was about all I could manage with two
hands. This would have been an excellent
exercise for a football player too. Grandpa
was constantly cautioning me to watch out for the handle. He knew of men that lost teeth when the
handle got away. I could see how that
could happen, as when the scraper blade hit a rock the scraper would skip over
and catch me by surprise. Eventually we
scooped all the loose dirt up and deposited it on the dam site. It was starting to look like a dam and the
plowing had opened up several little springs that trickled down and began
making a puddle.
When we quit for that day Grandpa waved his hand toward a ridge of dirt
above the dam and stated, “We’ll start pulling that dirt down in the morning. A couple more days work and we should have
enough height to be safe this year.” It
felt good to be constructing something new and needed. Our livestock would do much better with all
the water they wanted.
Priorities changed and we
didn’t get back to dam building the next day as we planned. When I returned from college several summers
later I was surprised to see a major dam built where we had started. Grandpa had a way of talking favors out of
people. He managed to persuade a
bulldozer operator that was working on the highway gravel pit to finish our dam. It was done right with
a spillway that would carry the water away before it reached the top of the dam. Quite a pond had been created in the several
years since we started our dam.
*Taken from "Which Road Should I Follow?, Volume 1, Growing up in the country", an autobiography by Edwin K. Hill.
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