Checking the Spark

Most wells on Earl’s ranch pumped water in two ways. They could be hooked up to a windmill set atop a large tower, or they could be switched to a pump using a pump jack and a four horsepower Briggs and Stratton motor modified to run on propane. It was always quite a chore to switch everything over from the wind to the pump, so some wells remained on the pump until the windmill fell over.

Now starting wells with Earl was a different headache altogether. We would start out early in the morning gathering the propane bottles and necessary reading material for the three-hour drive out to the ranch. Upon reaching a well and checking to see if it needed to be pumped, Earl would turn from truck driver to slave driver and the fun would begin.

The first order of business was to grease the pump jack. The jack was reminiscent of the oil rigs one sees while driving across Texas or Oklahoma, although quite a bit smaller. The grease came in a cardboard tube about the size of a can of Pringles, which was inserted into a lever action grease gun. Unfortunately, both were usually located in the pickup bed under six inches of rotting hay.

The helper’s job was to find the grease fun, load it if necessary, all while trying not to vomit from the putrid, rotting smell. The gun itself was protected from rust by at least an inch of layered grease mixed with rotting hay.

Once the gun was procured and properly locked and loaded, I would locate the grease nipples all over the machine and pump new grease into the joints while the old grease pumped out all over the pump jack and ground. The EPA would go nuts! That was the easy job.

I would now be forced to jump back into the pickup bed and search for wrenches, starting fluid, and the pull cord in the alfalfa sewage in the back of the truck. Then back to work starting the motor.

The empty propane bottle would be replaced by a full one and the propane turned on. The starting fluid was sprayed into the carburetor, the pull cord wound around the flywheel, and the cord tugged and pulled to set the motor and pump jack in motion. That is if the motor started, which it often didn’t.

When the motor didn’t start, we had to dismantle it, clean it out, try to figure out what was wrong, and then put it back together. After that came a series of tests to diagnose the problem and come up with a solution.

The most obvious solution was the sparkplug.  Earl would remove the spark plug wire and remove the spark plug from the engine to check the gap and clean it if necessary.  He would then spray a squirt of starting fluid into the engine head and replace the spark plug and wire, and then we would try again.

One day, while going through the motions with Earl, he decided that perhaps the points were bad.  The points were a contraption on the engine that worked like a timing device.  As a magnet on the flywheel passed another magnet on the frame, the result would be an electric charge being produced that was sent to the points and then on to the spark plug.  They allowed the spark plug to ignite at the precise moment necessary to keep the engine running.  Earl had done the spark plug cleaning method and had the plug replaced into the top of the engine.  That’s where I came into the picture.

Earl told me to hold the spark plug wire close to the plug while he rotated the flywheel slowly, using the pull cord.  My job was to watch the gap between the plug and the wire to see if a spark jumped across.  If there was no spark, then the engine would be removed and taken to town for repairs.  But if there was a spark, then we’d have to figure out the rest.  When I got older, that meant I would remove the engine and take it to town for repairs.  But this was Earl and his methods.

I held the wire close and  paid strict attention to that small gap. It had to be held at just the right distance for the spark to leap across the gap.  What I didn’t realize is that Earl had somehow forgotten that I was even in the picture.  He wrapped the starting cord around the flywheel and instead of pulling slowly and gently, he got a hold of that cord and pulled with all his might, spinning that flywheel at nearly full speed.

There was a spark alright.  I didn’t see the spark.  Instead, I felt it.  The electric charge traveled up my arm and through my body like a jolt of lightning.  My hand gripped the cord and froze my whole body in place.  I have never been at the business end of a Tazer, but I can imagine that this was what it felt like. 

When the flywheel came to a rest, I stepped away from the engine and walked carefully back to the truck, waiting for the inevitable heart attack.  I didn’t yell or curse.  I didn’t say a word.  I just got in the truck and sat there and let Earl work on that engine by himself.  It took an hour or two of stony silence in that truck, riding with Earl, before I got the nerve to ask, rather curtly, if he had forgotten I had a hold of that wire.  Earl’s response was a little grin as he said, “Gocha!”

I’ve heard many interesting jokes from Earl over the years of working with him, but not too many pranks.  That one topped the list.  I packed it away in case I ever had the opportunity as an old man to pull it on one of my own grandkids, but unfortunately, Dad sold the ranch long before I ever had that opportunity!