Old Mac Guy
ArboristSite Operative
I was over at Erma's Coffeeshop yesterday morning, reading the mail and having a chat with Pat and Erma, when Randall MacTavish, the old rancher, drove up out front and parked his old '86 Ford pickup with the two tons of baling wire hangin' on the stock racks. Randall saves all his baling wire (and everything else) and along about March, after a winter of feeding his little herd of Scottish long-horn cattle, his old 6-cylinder pickup moves kinda slow and probably gets about 3 miles to the gallon. He came in and we all howdyed and he sat on one of the counter stools near me.
He sez, "Kenneth, me lad, I've ga-hot a cha-hain saw I'm gonna give ya."
I blew coffee all over the countertop.
Erma went off into the kitchen and Pat suddenly remembered he had something to do over in the bar of Pat's City Bar and Erma's Coffeeshop. I eyed Randall suspiciously and asked, "What's wrong with it?"
"'Taint a thing wrrrong with it. It runs just fyne," Randall says. "But it's gettin' olde and I bought me a new one."
This time he didn't catch me with a mouthful of coffee.
"Where is it?," sez I.
"It's in me tra-hook," sez he.
We went out to see.
There in the back of Randall's old Ford, sittin' on top of a bunch of cake sacks, is a Mac 610. It looked all there. He picked it up and handed it to me. I noticed the chain cutter-teeth were about 1/357th of an inch long... pulled the starter cord slowly and she turned over OK; compression felt decent. Took the fuel cap off. Empty. Of course. Sniffed it. Smelt fresh. I saw an empty box from one of those Ninety-Eight-Dollar Box Store chainsaws sittin' by the cab.
"Sooo.., I see you bought yerself one of them Whu Flung Dung Wonders," sez I.
"It was on sayle," sez he, lookin' kinda sheepish that I knew he'd spent a dollar.
"Come on over to the honeyhouse and I'll give ya a quart to take back to Mrs. MacTavish," sez I.
I carried the Mac across the street and Randall walked on down to the post office. I set the Mac on the workbench in back. Cousin Thurston was finishing a mid-morning beer and listening to Rose of San Antone. I told him to check out the saw for oil and put some 40-1 in it. Walked back to the front and got a quart jar of Mesquite & Cactus Flower and back out to the sidewalk. MacTavish was just coming outta the post office. He got in his pickup, swung a big U-turn across the double-yellow lines on Main Street, and pulled up at the curb. I handed the honey in through the window.
"Thank ye, me lad," sez he, and drove slowly on down Main and around the curve and outta sight.
Puzzled by this unprecedented outburst of generosity by the old Scot, I went back to look at the saw. Thurston was just screwing the fuel cap back on.
"Did you oil it?" I ask.
"Yup," he sez.
I pulled the choke out and flipped the switch up and 'pulled 'er strang', as the local cowboys say. On the fourth pull, she blurbled. Pushed the choke to half-way and she fired up. Sounded OK.... feathered the choke in and she warmed into an idle. Revved up OK. Idled back down a little rough... then bogged down at half-throttle; chain stopped moving; bogged more... BAAAHHHhhhhh, and died. Chain brake was off. I pulled on the chain. Wouldn't budge. Set it on the bench, told Thursty to pull the clutch and went back to bottling honey.
After a bit, Thurston came in. "I can't get the clutch off," sez he.
"It's a left-hand thread," sez I.
"I know that," sez he. "I got the nut off. The drum won't budge."
"Use a wedge," sez I.
"I tried that", sez he, "it won't budge."
I went back and looked her over. The spur sprocket had a groove all the way down to the hub. On either side were other grooves half-way down. No tellin' how many chains had been worn out on it without changing the sprocket. I pulled on the drum. It moved back and forth a little bit, but no more. The clutch was froze on the shaft.
"Use the wooden wedges and tap gently. If you have to, warm a little bit around the clutch with a torch, but don't get the shaft hot or you'll ruin the seal." I sez, and went back to my bottling.
Mr and Mrs Powell came in from Logan and wanted a 2-gallon bucket of the Mountain Wildflower. While we were visiting and I was filling the bucket, I could hear Thursty tapping away on the wedges. Then a long silence in back. "He got it," thinks I.
As I was whoppin' the lid down on the bucket, I heard the saw fire up. Then rev. Then rev again. Then a bang-clatter and Thurston say "Damn!!" The saw shut down. "Excuse me," I sez to the Powell's, and went to the back. Thurston was standing there by the bench holdin' the saw. The clutch drum was spinning in the sawdust about 12 feet away. Half of one clutch shoe was lying on the bench. The spider was lying by his feet. His face was white. Even his nose was white.
"That thing just barely missed my head!" he sez. I looked at him. No blood anywhere... no visible injuries... "Are you alright?" I ask. "I think so," sez he. I just looked at him. I couldn't help but laugh.
When he couldn't tap the drum and clutch loose, Thursty got the bright idea of revvin' the saw to spin it off. It spun off, alright. We found the bearing lying in the sawdust next to the drum, which had finally stopped spinning. We found one spring 30 feet away, hanging on the chainlink fence. One hook was gone. We looked for 10 minutes and never found the other half of the one shoe, the other shoe, nor the other spring.
"Thursty," sez I, "don't ever do that again."
"Don't worry," sez he, "I won't."
He headed for the fridge and I headed back to the Powell's to help them get the bucket into their car.
I looked the saw over later. The thrust washer was still on the shaft. There didn't seem to be any damage to the saw itself. The metal edges where the clutch shoe broke in half were shiny and jagged.
"Thurston," sez I, "if you should EVER think about doin' that again, make damned sure nobody else is anywhere around!! Not even the dawgs!!"
Thurston just looked at me.
He sez, "Kenneth, me lad, I've ga-hot a cha-hain saw I'm gonna give ya."
I blew coffee all over the countertop.
Erma went off into the kitchen and Pat suddenly remembered he had something to do over in the bar of Pat's City Bar and Erma's Coffeeshop. I eyed Randall suspiciously and asked, "What's wrong with it?"
"'Taint a thing wrrrong with it. It runs just fyne," Randall says. "But it's gettin' olde and I bought me a new one."
This time he didn't catch me with a mouthful of coffee.
"Where is it?," sez I.
"It's in me tra-hook," sez he.
We went out to see.
There in the back of Randall's old Ford, sittin' on top of a bunch of cake sacks, is a Mac 610. It looked all there. He picked it up and handed it to me. I noticed the chain cutter-teeth were about 1/357th of an inch long... pulled the starter cord slowly and she turned over OK; compression felt decent. Took the fuel cap off. Empty. Of course. Sniffed it. Smelt fresh. I saw an empty box from one of those Ninety-Eight-Dollar Box Store chainsaws sittin' by the cab.
"Sooo.., I see you bought yerself one of them Whu Flung Dung Wonders," sez I.
"It was on sayle," sez he, lookin' kinda sheepish that I knew he'd spent a dollar.
"Come on over to the honeyhouse and I'll give ya a quart to take back to Mrs. MacTavish," sez I.
I carried the Mac across the street and Randall walked on down to the post office. I set the Mac on the workbench in back. Cousin Thurston was finishing a mid-morning beer and listening to Rose of San Antone. I told him to check out the saw for oil and put some 40-1 in it. Walked back to the front and got a quart jar of Mesquite & Cactus Flower and back out to the sidewalk. MacTavish was just coming outta the post office. He got in his pickup, swung a big U-turn across the double-yellow lines on Main Street, and pulled up at the curb. I handed the honey in through the window.
"Thank ye, me lad," sez he, and drove slowly on down Main and around the curve and outta sight.
Puzzled by this unprecedented outburst of generosity by the old Scot, I went back to look at the saw. Thurston was just screwing the fuel cap back on.
"Did you oil it?" I ask.
"Yup," he sez.
I pulled the choke out and flipped the switch up and 'pulled 'er strang', as the local cowboys say. On the fourth pull, she blurbled. Pushed the choke to half-way and she fired up. Sounded OK.... feathered the choke in and she warmed into an idle. Revved up OK. Idled back down a little rough... then bogged down at half-throttle; chain stopped moving; bogged more... BAAAHHHhhhhh, and died. Chain brake was off. I pulled on the chain. Wouldn't budge. Set it on the bench, told Thursty to pull the clutch and went back to bottling honey.
After a bit, Thurston came in. "I can't get the clutch off," sez he.
"It's a left-hand thread," sez I.
"I know that," sez he. "I got the nut off. The drum won't budge."
"Use a wedge," sez I.
"I tried that", sez he, "it won't budge."
I went back and looked her over. The spur sprocket had a groove all the way down to the hub. On either side were other grooves half-way down. No tellin' how many chains had been worn out on it without changing the sprocket. I pulled on the drum. It moved back and forth a little bit, but no more. The clutch was froze on the shaft.
"Use the wooden wedges and tap gently. If you have to, warm a little bit around the clutch with a torch, but don't get the shaft hot or you'll ruin the seal." I sez, and went back to my bottling.
Mr and Mrs Powell came in from Logan and wanted a 2-gallon bucket of the Mountain Wildflower. While we were visiting and I was filling the bucket, I could hear Thursty tapping away on the wedges. Then a long silence in back. "He got it," thinks I.
As I was whoppin' the lid down on the bucket, I heard the saw fire up. Then rev. Then rev again. Then a bang-clatter and Thurston say "Damn!!" The saw shut down. "Excuse me," I sez to the Powell's, and went to the back. Thurston was standing there by the bench holdin' the saw. The clutch drum was spinning in the sawdust about 12 feet away. Half of one clutch shoe was lying on the bench. The spider was lying by his feet. His face was white. Even his nose was white.
"That thing just barely missed my head!" he sez. I looked at him. No blood anywhere... no visible injuries... "Are you alright?" I ask. "I think so," sez he. I just looked at him. I couldn't help but laugh.
When he couldn't tap the drum and clutch loose, Thursty got the bright idea of revvin' the saw to spin it off. It spun off, alright. We found the bearing lying in the sawdust next to the drum, which had finally stopped spinning. We found one spring 30 feet away, hanging on the chainlink fence. One hook was gone. We looked for 10 minutes and never found the other half of the one shoe, the other shoe, nor the other spring.
"Thursty," sez I, "don't ever do that again."
"Don't worry," sez he, "I won't."
He headed for the fridge and I headed back to the Powell's to help them get the bucket into their car.
I looked the saw over later. The thrust washer was still on the shaft. There didn't seem to be any damage to the saw itself. The metal edges where the clutch shoe broke in half were shiny and jagged.
"Thurston," sez I, "if you should EVER think about doin' that again, make damned sure nobody else is anywhere around!! Not even the dawgs!!"
Thurston just looked at me.
opcorn: Great story
