Of
Oliver Cromwell, Snow
And
Electric Power in 2017
Oliver
Cromwell and the trials of the Donner
Party, came to mind recently as I floundered through snow and what seemed to be
a cascade of misfortune in restoring electricity to my farmhouse in southern
Maine, isolated and in danger of freezing after a gale-blown late February blizzard
.
Cromwell,
bless him, not necessarily overwhelmed with mercy but glad of a chance to
finance his revolt, sold the Scots he
had captured in 1650 in the Battle of Dunbar into slavery as bond servants and
got rid of them by shipping them off to the colonies.
Among
them was a Micum McIntire who completed his servitude in Dover ,New Hampshire,
and ultimately settled in York, Maine.
By various means over years he and his progeny acquired substantial land
holdings in the south western parts of the town. More than 250 years later I
find myself the grateful heir of a McIntire farm originally established around
two knolls, drumlin-like hills well off the road running out Beech Ridge on the
southern side of the York River estuary.
I
enjoy that farm, now largely woodlot except for about ten acres of the higher
ground around The Knolls, which named the site from the earliest days. I keep a garden, fruit trees, a small young orchard, and occasionally sell
or barter wood and lumber. I have many
wild friends including a substantial deer herd, coyotes, woodchucks, a fisher, at least one owl, turkeys and, to my
surprise, bluebirds in late February this year. In winter I visit regularly,
keep the long driveway open and the house heated with a ground source heat pump
I built myself. Sixteen solar panels
provide all the electricity used on the farm.
I have a substantial farm tractor that keeps the road open when
necessary and does virtually any other big job.
A smaller tractor, a Farmall, is an antique but convenient adjunct for
trimming the fields and other usually light jobs.
In
February I had a flat front tire on the John Deere tractor. The heavy front wheel was repaired by
professionals and rode in the back of my truck as I drove to the farm to
restore electricity before the house froze. The Town does a good job of keeping its roads
open and I was not surprised to find the
end of my long lane blocked by a hard-packed four-foot snow bank which I
expected to have to move to find a place to take my small truck off the road
while I opened the lane with a
snowblower, a sorry substitute for the
immobilized John Deere. But the packed
snow was frozen and yielded not at all
to a furious attack with a snow
shovel. Perhaps my snow blower would open a path from
the back side when I made my way back down.
I
struggled into an insulated set of high, rubber-bottomed boots, slithered over
the berm into the softer snow beyond to make my way, one step at a time, more than a tenth of a mile uphill to the barn. It was heavy going through
wind-packed snow that proved the wisdom
of knee-high boots that laced more or less snugly. Each packed step was deliberate, measured,
balanced. The foot went, with
resistance, through the dense surface
into the softer snow beneath and found a firm basis for a step ahead without a
stumble. It was slow progress, slowed
further by four trees the storm had felled across the lane. I had to remember to
carry a chainsaw on my return, not the most convenient encumbrance when
managing a snow blower, which appeared to be the only possibility that seemed
realistic in moving this depth of snow. I continued, slowly up the hill, thinking of the Donner
party and their decision to stop their struggle, not to try either to push on
further or to retreat but to settle in for the winter where they were. I had a sure refuge in the barn, not warm but
certainly free of snow and equipped with a substantial snow-blower that promised freedom to move
around outside and recover my ill-parked
truck. Not so, the Donner Party
who found themselves immobile and without recourse.
At
last in the barn, the snow blower was a new challenge. Normally it is started easily with electric
power, 110 volts. But the storm had broken
the connection to the power line and my panels were not producing sufficient
power to replace the normal supply.
Hand cranking was the only possibility.
Previous experience had not been encouraging, but I thought persistence
would ultimately succeed. It did not,
and energy for cranking ebbed early after the struggle up the hill.
The
best solution would be the John Deere tractor with its four-wheeled drive and
ample power. But the all-essential wheel
was in the truck below and there was little interest or possibility
of rescuing a two-hundred pound burden
short of moving the truck. The immediate
alternative was to test the antique Farmall and its snowplow, regularly used in
light snows to scrape the driveway and clear space in front of the barn. There appeared to be a high probability of
finding the light tractor inadequate part way down the lane, stopped by the
depth of snow ahead and without traction to back out of the mess. I was apprehensive, envisioning a week’s work with
hand winches and chains in returning with the tractor through the snow to the
barn. I tested the potential for moving
snow in front of the barn and, with care and persistence, cleared the yard.
Encouraged, and boldly, with the plow raised to clear only the hard-packed
surface snow, I pushed my way to the downed trees, cut them away and to my
surprise pushed on the full length of the lane
to the road. Opening a free space there I was able to batter my way through the frozen snowbank and reach the dry, town-plowed
surface. Several passes with the plow
opened a single lane for the entire length of the driveway. Finally,
I praised myself mightily for skill in negotiating that narrow lane with the
t There
remained the core purpose: electricity to restore heat in the house. The generator is seldom used and sits on a small
Gravely trailer in a dark corner of the barn behind a heavy, wheeled, wood
splitter that must be moved to release the generator. The splitter is awkward to move in the best
of circumstances. This time it seemed
especially immobile. A cursory
examination with a flashlight revealed a flat tire, impossible to reach in that
dark and crowded barn. “Of course!” I
thought as misfortune accumulated. A
garage jack with wheels under it enabled
enough mobility to warp the heavy monster into a pocket and allow the
generator to come out onto the barn floor where it could be dusted off and tested. The battery, of course, was quite dead. A
jumper cable to a battery from a Gravely garden tractor in the barn did not energize the starter. Surprisingly, however, and against all odds, the
second pull on the hand crank, brought life to the generator, a handsome,
yellow, “Robin 6100”, that produced 220 volts in the proper places. The day was
late and cold. I was encouraged that I could now start the snow blower and
there might soon be power in the house….and heat. But the generator had to be at the
house. Several passes with the snow
blower opened a sufficient path to the house to man-handle the generator,
trailer and all, to the cellar door. A heavy cable from the generator to a
fitting in the 220 circuit put power back in the house.
Within
an hour the house was warming as the temperature outside dropped again. The
generator rewarded all that struggle by running on one tank of gasoline for 12
hours, restoring the new “normal” to The Knolls 367 years after Cromwell triggered
all these events by selling an ancestor into slavery.
George
M. Woodwell
Woods
Hole, Massachusetts
April
5, 2017