Chapter 5- John Deere 5065E

The John Deere 5065E utility tractor is often confused with the John Deere 5065M as they are both similar named tractors. However they are both very different tractors, powered by different engines. The JD 5065E is powered by a John Deere designed and manufactured PowerTech 3029, 3 cylinder diesel engine. This engine is 2.9 liters in size and produces 65 hp thanks to the fact that it’s supercharged. The engine is liquid cooled. The fuel tank on this tractor can hold up to 68.1 liters (18 US gallons) of diesel. There is a choice of 2 similar transmissions on the 5065E. One is the SyncShuttle transmission that gives it 9 forward speeds and 3 for reversing. This transmission gives is a top speed of 28 kph (17.4 mph). The other transmission is a SyncReverser which also gives it 9 gears going forward and 3 for reversing. A dry clutch is used for changing gears on this machine.

The John Deere 5065E utility tractor comes with a series 5E, category 2, 3 point hitch as standard. This hitch has a maximum lifting capacity of 1629 kg (3591 lbs) and can accommodate a large range of attachments. Hydraulic wet disk brakes and a differential lock help to make controlling the JD 5065E fairly easy. The total weight of the machine varies as there are 3 different variants, a 2WD, a 4WD and an MFWD model.

The John Deere 5065E comes with a foldable ROPS (roll bar) which means that you can easily store it in sheds with low ceilings. The one piece hood in the JD 5065E tilts upwards very easily and allows the operator to quickly and easily service and inspect the engine, oil, radiator, hydraulics, etc. The hydraulics system on the tractor is an open center type system. Interestingly this tractor is not made in the US, but rather in Pune, India. Other tractors in this class include the John Deere 5055E and the John Deere 5065M utility tractors.

The tractor rattles, the cab shakes, the noiseless interior promised by the salesman has failed to materialise. Even the I-pod doesn’t drown out the bellow of the engine struggling to move through the heavy clay that passes for soil on this windswept, wet,miserable god-forsaken hole of a farm.

Aiden has taken to outbursts of fake Tourettes, long strings of swearing, complex, baroque in their construction. It makes him feel slightly better and he fervently hopes that the sheep can hear him above the rattle of the tractor, can at some deep sheepy level pick up his hatred, his complete disgust at their very existence on the planet.

Aiden hates the sheep, hates everything they stand for, the backbreaking work,the stupidly long hours, the non-existant return, the diseases,the smells and their mad empty eyes, mirrors into a terrible sheepy void.
Aidens’ anti-sheep outbursts are famous locally.He can bring the whole pub to a halt, faces turned expectantly towards him,silent,appreciative.Its as good as something off the telly and isnt some bloke talking about far away big city stuff. This is real,local and very very funny.

Of course, Aiden doesnt mean it to be funny, he actually despises sheep, but there is something about a man who’s livelihood depends on something he hates that just makes the guys down the pub laugh, even when they know its cruel and that there is something of the tragic hero about Aiden and his one man anti-sheep campaign.

The tractor moves across the field, Aiden feels every rough furrow jolt his bones, so much for the smooth ride he was promised. The sheep follow the tractor, wooly, filthy, heavy with lambs, they lumber behind him, mindlessly following as he drops bales of hay into the field.
He sneers at the sheep, their stupidity, their need to follow eachother, unthinkingly, towards each new hay bale.
“They’re all the bloody same” he screams into the wind
“Its all hay you morons”

The sheep break away from their quiet contenplative chewing to stare at him in muted interest before their heads return to the piles of hay. The tractor moves on and the lead ewe begins to trot as well as her distended belly will allow her, all the other ewes follow.

Sheep are flock animals with a strong gregarious instinct, and much of sheep behavior can be understood in these terms. The dominance hierarchy of Ovis aries and its natural inclination to follow a leader to new pastures were the pivotal factors in it being one of the first domesticated livestock species.[47] Furthermore, in contrast to the red deer and gazelle (two other species of ungulate of primary importance to meat production in prehistoric times), sheep do not defend territories but do form home ranges.[48] All sheep have a tendency to congregate close to other members of a flock, although this behavior varies with breed.[13] Farmers exploit this behavior to keep sheep together on unfenced pastures and to move them more easily. Shepherds may also use herding dogs in this effort, whose highly bred herding ability can assist in moving flocks. Sheep are also extremely food-oriented, and association of humans with regular feeding often results in sheep soliciting people for food.[49] Those who are moving sheep may exploit this behavior by leading sheep with buckets of feed, rather than forcing their movements with herding.[50][51]

In regions where sheep have no natural predators, none of the native breeds of sheep exhibit a strong flocking behavior.[12] Sheep can also become hefted to one particular local pasture (heft) so they do not roam freely in unfenced landscapes. Ewes teach the heft to their lambs, and if whole flocks are culled it must be retaught to the replacement animals.[7][52]

Flock dynamics in sheep are, as a rule, only exhibited in a group of four or more sheep. Fewer sheep may not react as normally expected when alone or with few other sheep.[6] For sheep, the primary defense mechanism is simply to flee from danger when their flight zone is crossed. Secondly, cornered sheep may charge or threaten to do so through hoof stamping and aggressive posture. This is particularly true for ewes with newborn lambs.[6]

In displaying flocking, sheep have a strong lead-follow tendency, and a leader often as not is simply the first sheep to move. However, sheep do establish a pecking order through physical displays of dominance. Dominant animals are inclined to be more aggressive with other sheep, and usually feed first at troughs.[53] Primarily among rams, horn size is a factor in the flock hierarchy.[54] Rams with different size horns may be less inclined to fight to establish pecking order, while rams with similarly sized horns are more so.[54]

Sheep can become stressed when separated from their flock members.[7] Sheep can recognize individual human and ovine faces, and remember them for years.[55][56] Relationships in flocks tend to be closest among related sheep: in mixed-breed flocks same-breed subgroups tend to form, and a ewe and her direct descendants often move as a unit within large flocks.[6]

Sheep are frequently thought of as unintelligent animals.[57] A sheep’s herd mentality and quickness to flee and panic in the face of stress often make shepherding a difficult endeavor for the uninitiated. Despite these perceptions, a University of Illinois monograph on sheep found them to be just below pigs and on par with cattle in IQ,[6] and some sheep have shown problem-solving abilities; a flock in West Yorkshire, England allegedly found a way to get over cattle grids by rolling on their backs, although documentation of this has relied on anecdotal accounts.[58] In addition to long-term facial recognition of individuals, sheep can also differentiate emotional states through facial characteristics.[55][56] If worked with patiently, sheep may learn their names, and many sheep are trained to be led by halter for showing and other purposes.[6] Sheep have also responded well to clicker training.[6] Very rarely, sheep are used as pack animals. Tibetan nomads distribute baggage equally throughout a flock as it is herded between living sites.[6]

Finally,the task is completed, Aiden drives back towards the farmhouse he was born in and where he currently fears that he will die too.

He has a rare moment of satisfaction when he manages to hold up a line of traffic, incomers he reckons, judging by the state of their pristine 4x4s. He can feel their anger, their desires to blast him off the road and finally, when he reckons that he had managed to ruin as many journeys as possible, he pulls over and gives a cheery wave as 20 or 30 cars power past.

Home, he pulls off the clay encrusted wellies, the stinking and ancient Barbour jacket and shuffles,suddenly bone tired and chilled to his very centre into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Its a delaying tactic to ward off his terible need to open the bottle of cheap supermarket scotch earlier and earlier.

The house has hardly changed since his parents deaths. A bigger TV, a new microwave, a slightly on/off internet connection, but the actual fabric has remained untouched. The cabbage rose wallpaper in the lounge, the gingham blinds in the kitchen. He can remember his mothers’ excitement when she ordered them
“Made to measure” she whispered, stroking the fabric
“Imagine, they won’t fit any other windows in the world”

He roots around in the freezer, he can almost visualise its’ glory days, stuffed with lamb and mutton butchered here on the farm. Each cut transformed into hearty food for the hungry family, he sighs realises he is reminiscing an Oxo advert rather than the reality of mealtimes when they were all still at home.

He digs out a chicken tikka masala, slams it into the microwave, remembers, this time, to puncture the plastic wrapping and stands leaning into the microwave, watching the little plastic container move in unsteady circles.

His two sisters left as soon as they decently could and are now located in some bizarre faux rural existence, they and their children clad in Joules clothing and Hunter wellies.
They have reinvented their childhood as some bucolic existence and decamp each summer to return to the family home, carefully choosing the 2 weeks of the year when the farm is actually bearable, mud free, dust free and when the sheep are nearly attractive. Each evening, they drag unsuitable furniture into the garden and while their children run riot, moan incessantly about the stresses of their urban existences.

Aiden always knew that he was trapped, the only son, his chance of escape scuppered by his parents’ decision to stop at three children. He was a dutiful son, hardworking, industrious, taciturn, the perfect farmer.

And then, when his parents were dead and escape was a real possibility, he discovered that the years of mud and cold and backbreaking labour had somehow diminished him and there he was at 45, single, fearful, trapped with the sheep and a farm that made no money no matter how hard he worked.

The microwave pings, tipping him back into this present, this moment. He takes the food, too hot, too brightly coloured and stopping only to collect the first scotch of the evening, he walks, suddenly invigorated towards the desk and the laptop.

It had started as a joke, male banter in the pub, someone knew someone who had done it, someone else knew someone who had nearly done it. At first Aiden laughed along with everyone else, shared the smutty jokes, looked at the photos from the interweb.

But the idea stayed with him, grew inside him, became something he could not and actually did not want to ignore.

Thai brides, mail order brides. He found the web sites, looked the photos, read the happy ever after stories.

He found himself returning night after night to stare at these tiny child women, exotic, flower like, delicate as humming birds.
Their names caught in his throat
Ang Lee
Mai Lee

He knew the reality, women so poor that they would seriously consider marriage to complete strangers from halfway across the world, he knew thàt many of them worked in the sex industry, in the bars in Bangkok, jumping onto the laps of red faced sweaty middle aged men.

He knew that really it was impossible, could visualise the expressions on his sisters’ faces, the gossip in the village pub, the whispered comments. He could feel the wrongness of one of these lotus women living here, amongst the sheep and the stink and the cold, their minute feet in equally minute wellies, weighed down by the constant heavy clay.

His dinner finished, the container wiped clean with slice of thick white bread, he sighs and collects the second whiskey of the night and boots up the computer. The site is bookmarked, one of his favourites. He goes straight to the photo gallery and clicks on her picture, sipping his drink, he leans back in his chair and then carefully, very carefully, he touches the screen with one delicate movement and as he does so, he notices the ingrained filth under his finger nail.

Dear Bel
I met my Thai wife in Thailand four years ago. She is 32, I am 50; we’ve been married three years – my second marriage. I have given my wife most of the things she has wanted financially, but I am finding this a strain on our resources.
The problem is, she is expected to help her family back home and this is where some of our money goes. My wife has cut down on giving out money, but she still wants to support her parents and her younger brother so they have a better life.
My wife wants to bring her young brother to England to be educated here, but I know this can be expensive and I feel why should I support this? She has already helped her older sisters. I need to be able to retire at 65 and be comfortable financially.

Read more:
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: