A Museum of Early American Tools - Axes!

I recently discovered this great book A museum of Early American Tools by Eric Sloan. The book features loads of hand drawn pen and ink illustrations of all kinds of tools used by early American settlers. Tools for barn building, black smithing, carpentry, you name it all hand drawn and explained. I wanted to scan the entire book, but instead I've decided to order my own version (hardcover) from amazon. For a little taste of how awesome this little book is here is the first few scans All about Axes.

If you want a copy, click Here

Same Blog New Name

Welcome to the new, shorter Axes and Mills.

I will continue posting my academic (and non academic) explorations, research and assignments.

Enjoy,

-D

Assignment 3 - Biograph - Part 1 - Time

Paper route

Between 4:00 am and 6:30 am from about 1998 until 2001 I had a morning routine. When I was twelve I became delivery boy for the Brantford Expositor the local newspaper. I was responsible for the delivery of three hundred and twenty papers each morning. The route was too large for me to do on my own and I had to enlist the help of my father. I asked him formally, but since the route was his idea first, I knew he would accept. We would deliver about a hundred and sixty papers each, every morning and would split the earnings down the middle. It was hard to tell who worked for whom.

I would set the alarm, usually at 4:00 am, 3:30 if it was a Friday. I would get up and brush my teeth. Then I would wake my Dad and make go downstairs to make myself Breakfast, usually a glass of milk and two toasts with peanut butter. My Dad would be ready to leave in ten minutes or less. He wouldn't eat anything.

Under complete darkness we drove five minutes to the downtown depot to pick up the papers. Sometimes we waited in the car for the delivery van to show up, while other mornings our pile was waiting for us when we arrived. Fridays, Saturdays, and sometimes Wednesdays we had inserts, advertisements, catalogs, etc. Depending on how cold it was we would usually put the inserts into the papers on the hood of the car. Our family car was a 1980’s Ford Crown Victoria, it had a very large hood. I would stand on the passenger side and fill my bags, and he would fill his on the other. When it was cold I would climb into the back seat to do my half, my dad would do his half on the front seat. On insert days we needed three bags each, one at each side, and one on our backs.

We each had our own side of the street. Sometimes we covered for each other if one of us fell behind. My dad is 6’2” and I was maybe 5’6” then, he walked fast and I had to hustle to keep up, unless he had trouble with a mailbox he usually covered for me. We walked through snowdrifts and rain, sleet. We felt the crisp spring mornings, and the fresh summer dawns. I knew where I was each morning, I knew my task, I knew how to avoid motion lights and whose steps were the slipperiest, I anticipated each crack in the sidewalks.

The route had 4 stages. We did the largest first, carrying the most weight right away. During the spring, by the end of the first stage we would begin to see the morning light peeking up in the East. The end of the first stage was my favorite time each morning, I would run the last three papers to the end of the street and my dad would wait for me at the corner. We would walk back to the car together. We never talked of too much, but we did talk, mostly he drilled me about school and I asked him questions about cars and life, sometimes we complained about the weight of the papers or the weather. Most of the time I was just happy to be outside with him while no one else was awake.

The second stage was a small dead end street. It was also the last street the city would plow during the winter. Which is to say that it never got plowed. There was more than a few mornings when I had to push the car out of a snowdrift. . I had to be careful not to push on the lights or the front grill as I rocked the car back and forth, my dad timed in with the gas peddle. We always got it out.

The seasons then were gradual to me, the light changed slowly, as did the cold. As fall came and winter set in I would need more clothes, then scarves, hats, heavy gloves and then snow pants and long johns. During the winter we did the route entirely in darkness with just the orange phosphorus streetlights casting gloomy shadows on the fresh snow.  After the first five houses my scarf would be frozen solid and my dads beard would be white with icicles and frost. The third stage the route wound to the east of the neighborhood and ran beside a large park with. Here the wind whipped across the expanse of soccer fields and built snow drifts in front of peoples front doors and up their steps. Due to the weather making us late at every stage, sometimes my dad would have to leave for work, and I would be left to finish the remainder of the route myself. These mornings I had to carry double which was ok because I had time before school and I could go at my own pace. One blustery morning, more than 12 inches of snow had fallen already, I remember this morning because I remember trudging through the drifts and having the wind coat my front white as I walked. I would step forward and the wind would whip behind me, my tracks were quickly blown over and covered, as if I was never there. The papers just appeared in those mailboxes with no trace of the boy who carried them.

The last part of the route, we would do in the daylight of summer, but in the fall and spring the sun would just be rising and we hurried as not to be seen. We would get back into the car and drive up the hill to the last 6 or 7 houses. My dad would turn off the headlights as we pulled into the driveways. I would run to the mailboxes while he turned around the car. If we were done the third stage early we would walk to these distant houses together carrying only a few papers under our arms. Some Saturdays after the route was finished we would go out for breakfast, just him and I at the local diner.

He would order eggs and chocolate milk. I would get the same.  

Assignment 3 - Biograph - Part 3 - Thing

1994 Pontiac Grand Prix

It’s red, red, with black mirrors, and black widows. The inside is tan, with cloth seats, and a black consol, with a black radio. The wheel was low, and through it you could see the gauges clearly, emblazoned with an orange glow from deep beneath the dash. In front of me under the long sweeping hood purrs a fuel injected 3.1L V6. The exhaust runs beneath my feet, and produces a low throaty note behind me. My foot feeds the fuel into the engine and it responds, the power is delivered directly into the front wheels and my vessel moves forward.

Minutes ago I bought it outright for a thousand dollars. I paid cash in twenty-dollar bills. My friend had given me the tip that his neighbour, the previous owner of this machine, wanted to sell. It was Pontiac Grand Prix, a modern muscle car trying to fit into a domestic suburban society. I am happy to rescue it from this falsity.

I pull out of the crescent, and onto the parkway. My hand slides over the wheel, the steering responds instantly as I weave left and right through the slow afternoon traffic.

A week before I made an agreement with my father that I would drive the family van until university. That would have been a good deal if the van actually made it that long. The van was a two-tone blue GMC Rally, with chrome running boards, a roof rack and a special edition grille. It was hard to guess that the old crate had a 350 cubic inch V8 with a stainless steel exhaust. It ran with a loud tick when we bought it used three years ago. We have done a terrible job maintaining it ever since. The tick got gradually worse every time my dad lit up the tires in front of the factory where he worked. Thumbing his nose and the bosses 911 turbo. Then two days ago as I was driving to Orangeville in the high morning heat the engine blew. I lost all power and barely limped it off the highway.

It’s hot. With one touch from my left hand index finger I roll down the window. The hot summer air feels cool as I cruse through town. When I stop at a red light the heat seeps in. I reach down and turn the radio on. I adjust the side mirrors with my left hand, then reach up and position the rearview. The seat is perfect.

We see out mechanic every Sunday at church, I paid for the van to be towed from Burlington back to his shop. It was Saturday and the shop was closed, but he met me there anyways. He popped the hood of the van, and turned the key, after a few tries if fired up. He gave it a listen and turned it off, He looked at me dead straight, “broken piston rod, maybe a cracked manifold” he paused,  “it would need a full rebuild maybe a whole new block” thinking, adding, he finished with, “a new engine, before labour, three or four thousand” I knew labour would be at least another grand and he confirmed my guess “Labour would be at least three full days from one man, minimum fifteen hundred”. He had said enough. The rebuild was worth twice what we had paid for it. The Van was dead.

My dad is close behind me, watching, judging, I drive cautiously but efficiently hearing his words echo in my head: “Do as I say, not as I do”. I signal and make a right onto the number 18 concession and drive out of town. The black and white speed limit signs read 80 now and accelerate to suite. I drive west into the hot afternoon sun, flip the visor down to shade my eyes. I’ve never had or appreciated air-conditioning so I open all the windows with my fingers on my left hand.  Approaching my turn, I signal left to turn onto Onondaga road, another half mile to our mechanic. My dad pulls up close behind me and sticks his head out the window and yells something. I didn’t hear him. I make the turn and wait for him. He comes close and yells again. This time I hear him, I grin and my foot pushes down on the gas.

“Let her go!”

As I put down the accelerator I watch him get smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. I watch the Tachometer move through each of the 5 speeds, always shifting effortlessly just before the 6000rpm red line. I look down at the speedometer, mind meets adrenaline and I read speeds I’ve never dreamed of in the van. The car sinks low to the ground hugging the road. The concession bends around a long gradual turn I hold the wheel steady with both hands, cutting inside over the right white line. Confidence builds, coming out of the turn I accelerate again to a higher speed. Pushing the pedal down and I keep finding more power beneath my foot. The engine revs higher. The radio is gone, the engine and the wind is all I hear.

The shop driveway comes up fast and I brake hard to make it. The wheels grip the hot summer pavement, the hood drops, and the seat belt holds me close into seat. I lean in as I jolt the wheel right, pulling into the drive with the smell of hot brakes and burnt rubber close behind me. I leave the keys with the mechanic as my dad pulls up.

The old van is still sitting where the tow truck left it.

Assignment 3 - Biograph - Part 2 - Place

Schuts Part I

The summer after first year I got a job at a brickyard. Schuts was five minutes from my home and it offered a challenging setting in which to learn how to drive heavy equipment. The gravel yard, with rows and rows of bricks, each stacked four pallets high, gave a good level surface, perfect for getting to know each machine, what it could lift, what its clearances were and how to approach each type of load. I honed my skills on the hard packed gravel fetching brick orders, loading and unloading trucks or rearranging the stacks.

There was also the far back of the yard where the gravel stopped, where the brambles and soft wet soil took over. One day after a hard rainfall we got an order for four pallets of reclaimed brick. This brick was stored at the very back of the yard in behind the last rows that could be reached from the aisle. I could have pulled out the thirty pallets of brick that sat between me the requested tan reclaimed at that back. I decided instead, to go around, and pluck the order from the ten-foot ditch boundary at the rear of the stacks.

Behind the stacks the ground was soft, muddy and swollen with the fresh rain. The bricks were located in the middle of the yard. I would have to approach them from one of the back corners. My first choice, for the job was the 4x4 JCB 426i but it was being used to load dump trucks with gravel. Instead I fell back on old faithful, a John Deere 482 tractor style forklift. This old brute spewed black-blue exhaust when you started it and it rattled and creaked as it moved. She was limited to two-wheel drive, but was the strongest unit of the three. The 482 was equipped with two brake pedals flanked with two gas pedals.  These could be linked or separated. Separated, the pedals controlled the left and right wheels individually. To reduce its turning radius you could brake on the left wheel while still giving power to the right, pivoting the tractor on the left wheel. I kicked open the large clip that linked the two brake pedals, enabling me to be able brake each wheel individually it case it   slipped, and I could use the tighter radius to maneuver between the stacks of brick and the ditch beside me.

I clawed my way through the undergrowth, spinning the huge tractor tires in the mud and cutting deep gouges into the earth. The cage on the cab protected me as I pushed through branches and thorns. The tire treads threw up chunks of earth and I coaxed the machine along the swampy right-of-way, stomping with my steel-toed work boots from pedal to pedal, forcing it forward. Once the load was on and stacked two pallets high the front of the forklift sunk into the earth pushing mounds of mud up on each side of the wheels, with the extra weigh it was easier to drive the machine through the slick mud.

Forks low and wooden pallet scraping the weeds I backed the machine out along the two tracks I had just cut and at a turtles pace, drove the load to the front of the yard. When I returned to get the rest of the order the earth had crept back together in my wake, sealing the path I had forged. I repeated act and the machine exhaled black clouds of smoke into humid summer air. Every stomp of my food yielded a grunt from the heavy steel and two more pallets of brick were brought to the front. It was covered in mud with branches lodged in the cage when I parked the 482. It heaved and signed when I killed the engine, ticking as I walked away.

Schuts Part II

Tonka Trucks, when I was four I got my first one, then they were still made of metal, painted bright yellow and black. I had a truck with a rotating backhoe mounted it. You could sit on the back of the truck and operate the backhoe. My older brother had a front-end loader. You couldn’t sit on it but you could bulldoze, could lift up loads sand and rocks in its articulating front bucket. It had a joint in the middle for steering and large tractor tires.  Together we performed massive earthworks in our back yard sandbox.

The far north west of the yard well out of public view, the gravel slopes down into a natural low-lying gully. This was the trash heap and at the end of the summer, after a busy building season it was time to clean up the yard. It as late Thursday afternoon, the job was nearly done.   It was my last week before I would quit and go back to university. The other Students had left for the day and the boss was on vacation and the lead hand Jeff was drinking beer, resting on one of the three lawn chairs in the shade of the loading-bay. He instructed me to take the loader and go tidy up the sprawling trash pile, my last charge of the summer. I put the bucket on the JCB 426HT and road down the north road to the pile

Before this day I had only really driven the machine as a forklift and never got to use it as a loader. I rounded the corner of the yard, around the last row of bricks, and lowered the bucket two inches above the gravel. With my right hand on the controller I set the cutting edge of the bucket parallel to the ground and drove forward. I hit the gas just before I reached the edge of the pile and dug the bucket into the side of the rubble heap. Simultaneously I lifted and tilted the bucket, driving the edge of the slumping pile higher into the air. The front tires of the loader reached the slope it climbed up the side of the pile. The loader tilted back until all I could see ahead of me was sky. Then dumping the bucket at top of the pile I would back down. I would swing the front of the loader right, then left to straighten out, moving around its perimeter always placing myself perpendicular to the trash heap’s edge. When the wheels slipped I knew I had the reached the extent of what I could push forward the JCB grunting. Then I would lift the bucket, the front tires would compress and the unit would lurch forward, sometimes the back wheels would come up clear off the ground as I lifted.

At about the third pass I realized I had a stupid four year olds smile plastered on my face, I was behind the wheel of a twelve-ton earth-moving machine. Really I was just playing in a sand box with someone else’s Tonka truck.

Assignment 4 - Monograph- A Mill - Photos

Here is are some photos from the site visit. I will try to explain them as we go.

These views are looking south at the mill pond, the Dam weir is seen in the right two photos

These views are looking north from along side the power channel. The mill is seen in the right photo with the intake and trash rack seen in front of the road.

These two view are taken next to the river and the access road.

Above left: A view west standing at the end of the tail race.

Above right: A view looking west from the road. 

Above are views looking west inside of the ground floor. starting at the Turbine + Generator and moving north to above the tail race channel where the first turbine was built.

Above views are looking south at the Generator flywheel, drive shaft assembly. The original stone walls are seen in the behind the machinery. Also in these photos is the overhead beams that were installed by my uncle and cousin for the soul purpose of installing the gearbox and generator

Close ups of the Gearbox, drive shaft and flywheel the mechanism at the right is responsible for opening and closing the wicket gates (controlling flow to the generator) the assembly is entirely made out of scrap farm machinery and used car parts. Designed and built by my uncle. 

Above left:  a view from the loading bay looking to the generator room, note pulley beams overhead.

Above right: a view from the second to the third floor. Really I'm just enjoying the height, rhythm and loftiness of the tiber framing. 

Above left: The old manual flow controller (throttle) for the mill. This wheel was linked via chain the wicket gate to control the flow (and speed) of the turbine. Originally the belt drive around the flywheel powered everything mechanically. 

Above right: the old chopper, grinder, and bag filler.

Assignment 4 - Monograph- A Mill - Update

On Saturday January 29, 2011 I visited my uncles mill in northwestern Ontario. The Mill is located in the town of the Pinkerton, on the Teaswater River. We arrived at the mill at about 11:45am. The water in the Power channel was low, but the mill was still generating about 65 kWh, which is average for this time of year. We started the tour immediately. First stop was the millpond. The millpond is about 15-20 acres in size, and the damn is located at the NW. The Teaswater River flows from here past the town and around a large horseshoe where it connects to the Tail Race from the mill. 

Here is a plan of the mill site I drew in my sketchbook. North is to the left, and the Millpond is to the south. The town of Pinkerton is to the west. The mill site is more than ideal for a number of reasons. The bend in the river allows for the power-channel and mill race to bypass the river. The falls over the Weir are can be seen and enjoyed from different parts of town and from the bridge the river keeps its picturesque quality. The mill is tucked in beside a hill next to the road. Most people in the small town don't actually know that the mill is generating electricity. 

The Power of the mill is determined by the "head" head is the height difference between where the water enters the turbine and where it leaves. In this case the intake is located to the south of the road, it runs under the road passes through the turbine and leaves via the Tailrace at the northeast. The head available at this location varies between 15 and 16 ft and generates about 100-160 RPM 

Here is a sketch of the mill I did while standing at the access road. The mills have been through a number of stages and additions since it was first built. The first mill to be built on this site was a Sawmill (1). A Gristmill was built about 5 years later, in the location of the current mill. It has burned twice since its first construction, and has been through a number of upgrades at each stage. The mill stopped functioning as a gristmill Sept 99' as it was unsustainable to compete with the larger more industrial milling operations of the modern day. My uncle purchased the property Nov 99'. He removed most of the milling equipment and storage, selling it off or re-using it elsewhere. 

The existing building is erected on 2' wide stone and concrete walls that make up the ground floor. The 3+ stories above is a simple wood frame and timber barn constructions clad in Steel siding. The Hydropower Generation portion of the building occupies less than 1/2 of the ground floor. The 2nd and third levels are vacant save for some scrap plywood, canoes and rowboats. The other two buildings on the site are rented out to local farmers as storage space. 

The Turbine itself has been in operation for the better part of the last half-century. I drew a diagram of the Turbine, gearbox, and Generator configuration above. The water flows into the turbine at the right of page, turning it and flowing down out to the tailrace. The Turbine is horizontal, and turns a drive shaft. Attached to the shaft is a flywheel. The flywheel used to power the entire building. By a series of belt drives it would link to pulleys and chains moving choppers, graters and grinders, and elevators. Now it acts more as a ballast than anything. The drive shaft continues through the wheel where it reaches the gearbox. The gearbox weighs about 2400lbs and has a 6:1 ratio. It multiplies the rpm of the turbine 6x before transferring the power into the Generator.  The Generator has a 34" diameter and weighs 3400lbs. It’s rated for 600rpm. 

The Generator then links to the transformers, and monitors in the electrical room, passes through a Meter and is connected through 2km of new 3 phase power lines to the Ontario power-grid.

Here is shot of the Turbine + Generator assembly. 

I hope to get more into the numbers and potentials of the site in a later post. 

References:

1. http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~pinkerton/water_power_at_pinkerton.htm

Assignment 3 - Biograph - Part 1 - 4:00 am-6:30 am

Between 4:00 am and 6:30 am from about 1998 until 2001 I began a morning routine. When I was twelve I became delivery boy for the Brantford Expositor the local newspaper. I had a large route and was responsible for delivering 320 papers each morning. It was such a large route that I had to enlist the help of my father, I asked him formally, but since it was his idea first, I knew he would accept. We would both deliver about 160 papers each and the profit was split down the middle. It was hard to tell who worked for who.

I would set the alarm, usually at 4:00 am, sometimes 3:30 if it was a Friday. I would get up and brush my teeth. Then I would wake my Dad up and make myself Breakfast, usually a glass of milk and two toasts with peanut butter and jam. My Dad would be ready to leave in ten minutes or less. He wouldn't eat anything. 

Under complete darkness we drove five minutes to the downtown depot to pick up the papers. Sometimes we waited in the car for the delivery van to show up, while other mornings our pile was waiting for us when we arrived. Fridays, Saturdays, and sometimes Wednesdays we had inserts, advertisements, catalogs, etc. Depending on how cold it was we would usually put the inserts into the papers on the hood of the car. Our family car was a 1980’s Ford crown victoria, it had a very large hood. I stood on the passenger side and filled my bags, and he on the other. When it was cold I would climb in the back seat to do my half, my dad would do his in the front seat. On insert days we needed three bags each, one at each side, and one on our backs. 

We each had our own side of the street, sometimes we covered for each other if one of us fell behind. My dad is 6’2” I was maybe 5’6” then, he walked fast and I had to keep up, unless he had trouble with a mail box he usually covered for me. We walked through snow drifts and rain, sleet, we felt the crisp spring mornings, and the fresh summer dawns. I knew where I was each morning, I knew my task, I knew who’s steps were the slipperiest, I knew how to avoid motion lights, I anticipated each crack in the sidewalks. Most mornings I was very alert, observant and keen, but some mornings I was on autopilot with my head somewhere else.

The route had 4 stages, we did the largest first, carrying the most weight right away. During the spring, by the end of the first stage we would see the morning light peeking up in the East. The end of the first stage was my favorite time each morning, I would run the last three papers to the end of the street and my dad would wait for me at the corner. We would walk back to the car together. We never talked of too much, but we did talk, mostly he drilled me about school and I asked him questions about cars and life, sometimes we complained about the weight of the papers or the weather. Most of the time I was just happy to be there with him, outside, while no one else was awake.   

The second stage was a small dead end street. It was also the last street the city would plow during the winter. Which is to say that it never got plowed. There was more than a few mornings when I had to push the car our of a snow drift. I would rock it back and forth while my dad timed in with the gas peddle. I had to be careful not to push on the lights or the front grill. We always got it out. 

The seasons then were gradual to me, the light changed slowly, as did the cold. As fall came and winter set in I would need more clothes, then scarves, hats, heavy gloves and then snow pants and long-johns. During the winter we did the route entirely in darkness with just the orange phosphorus streetlights casting gloomy shadows on the fresh snow.  After the first five houses my scarf would be frozen solid and my dads beard would be white with icicles and frost. During the third stage the route wound around the east of the neighborhood which bordered a large park with four soccer fields. Here the wind whipped across the fields and built huge snow drifts in front of peoples front doors and up their steps. Due to the weather making us late at every stage, my dad would leave for work, and I had to finish this part of the route myself. These mornings I had to carry double which was ok because I had time before school and could go at my own pace. One blustery morning, more than 12 inches of snow had fallen already and It was looking like I wouldn’t be going to school. I remember this morning because I remember trudging through the drifts and having the wind coat my front white as I walked. I would move forward and the wind would whip behind me, my tracks were quickly blown over and covered, as if I was never there. The papers just magically appeared in mailboxes with no trace of the boy who carried it. 

The last part of the route, the fourth stage we would do in the daylight of summer, but in the fall and spring the sun would just be rising and we hurried as not to be seen. We usually wrapped up the third stage at about 6:15 am. We would get back into the car and drive up the hill to the last 6 or 7 houses. If we were done the third stage early we would walk to these distant houses together carrying only a few papers under our arms. When we dove my dad would turn off the headlights as we pulled into the driveways. I would run to the mailboxes while he turned around the car. Some Saturdays after the route we would go out for breakfast, just him and I at the local diner. 

He would order eggs and chocolate milk. I would get the same.