Crooked Grain Bin

My daughter, Abby, and I were pulling a load of small square bales back to the stackyard, hoping gusty winds would refrain from blowing bales off the trailer, when she spotted something askew.

“Mom, why is the grain bin crooked?”

Good question.

I don’t raise grain. My two grain bins are symbols of the 1970s, when wheat prices skyrocketed so high that even Alistair Graham was finally tempted to plow, plant and reap Montana’s amber waves of grain.

When my husband, Steve, and I bought the Graham Ranch in 2006, we seeded alfalfa in those wheat fields.

Now, one grain bin holds some wheat to feed the chickens and the other often only protects bags of mineral for my livestock.

From our perch in the pickup, one of our twin towers now looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Yet, for a moment, I wasn’t sure whether the grain bin was leaning or the wind was tilting the pickup.

I needed to solve this problem now, before a gust toppled the bin and I was left with a crumpled pile of corrugated tin.

This was a breezy day, but the forecast predicted 70 to 80 mile per hour winds tomorrow.

Grain bins couldn’t be too heavy. After all, the wind moved this one.

I thought about calling someone to help, but everyone is crazy busy these days. This was just a physics problem, one of matter and motion, force and leverage.

We gathered three webbed straps, my cool new stretchy tow rope, a long bar, a chain plus some yellow twine.

After all, yellow twine always helps solve problems.

We wrapped the straps around the bin and hooked the chain to the straps. The twine helped pull, too.

I tugged with the pickup.

The twine popped.

The bin remained in place.

I might need more fire power.

And some lift.

We rolled a couple of pipes under the bin and hooked the tractor to the chain.

Abby stood back and signaled.

After wedging the bottom edge of the bin over the cinderblock foundation in a couple of places, the grain bin moved.

A strap broke and flew through the air.

We tied a knot in the strap and tugged again.

Too far.

As we reset our gear to the other side, we finessed our strategy.

I thought about my learning curves throughout my life and, especially, in the past three years since Steve died.

I thought about the first day of my job at a ranch in Utah when I pulled up and spotted unsaddled horses standing at the hitchrail.

I had no idea how to saddle a horse.

Surreptitiously, I watched my boss and learned.

The next scene to flash before my eyes was the day I needed to start the skid steer for the first time. Steve had died a month or so before, the cows were hungry, snow was flying in below-0 wind and none of my tractors would start.

I found the owner’s manual, held the glow-plug button and crossed my fingers.

I was scared that day, but since then each unexpected situation that slaps at me from left field has become an exercise in reducing the problem to its core.

Usually, science is involved.

Natural laws are so much easier to deal with than human behavior.

So when the grain bin blew off its foundation, I quickly assessed how to move it back. The dilemma was not how to move it, but only the urgency blowing in the wind.

This year, all of us have learned to deal with unexpected situations slapping at us from left field.

So pat yourself on the back.

And duck if you see a grain bin flying past your head.