Small Parts Deconstruction

The International Harvester came with a variety of bits and pieces as befits anything and everything that spent any time in an arsenal whatsoever. In the mix are parts from Springfield Armory (SA), Harrington & Richardson (HRA), and Winchester (WRA). The 4-mik600k serial number places it in the latter part off the first serial-number block that was assigned, maybe somewhere in 1955 – I think if you add-up production numbers, but don’t trust my math.
UPDATE: According to the OldGuns.Net calculator, “The year of manufacture for serial number 46579XX is 1953.”
It’s a fun gun to field-strip, and beyond. The legs of the receiver are thoroughly IHC stamped (International Harvester Corp.), with some interesting pencil marks. 44 over 4-61 – probably arsenal re-build markings. Additionally the stock has been glass-bedded – a long time ago using early materials, so for replacement/competition purposes I might as well go National Match, since this would fall into that designated shooting-class now (match-rifle).
The barrel is of the well known and high-quality Line Machine (LMR) company dating from July 1953.
The Springfield Armory op-rod mics an excellent .526, plus there’s the trigger-housing and hammer, with a late IHC “U” marked safety.
UPDATE: “U” for United Auto, used by late SA and early IHC rifles.
HRA = bolt and gas-plug.
WRA was the donor of a lovely trigger-guard.
The peep-sight was drilled and tapped for a Marbles or Western type sight disc. And it’s not perfectly centered. It’s also much finer than even a National Match hood, and frankly too-fine for my eyes as sighting through it exhibits for me the “spider-web effect.” That’s OK, I have another rear aperture that has been un-f*cked.
Not sure what the stampings on the windage and elevation knobs amount to: BME and WCE…but are late-period items and not IHC.
UPDATE: Thanks to Calvin we now know that, “BME = Bruce Machine & Engineering and WCE = Wico Electric. USGI contractors.”
Also not sure what the “11” is on the bullet-guide thing is.

The Emu – at least I think that’s what it is.

A(nother) case for EDC-everywhere. This sum’bitch came quietly wandering up the drive after I had rolled-up the garbage cans to their pick-up location. I turned around and flat stopped in my tracks.
big-bird peckerhead
He (?) was in no hurry, despite the neighbor’s dogs (a white-wolf type and a German Shepard) across the fence barking like crazy.
I thought the dogs were just noisy because they wanted pets from me, but nooo.
He was about as tall as me, and with a similar size shoe-print, and that scared me. His slow and deliberate gait indicated s(he) wasn’t afraid of nobody. Somebody’s escaped pet I suppose, but I hesitate to call an Emu a “pet” because they are just nasty big and ornery birds.
The dogs were barking like crazy and he didn’t care, I picked-up a stick laying on the ground and raised up my arms over my head and repeated, “Keep moving!” And he slowly walked down the road away towards another house.
I didn’t check to see if (s)he had a collar.


Unseen, lying beneath the surface on either side of the steps cut into the embankment, are some two-dozen bulbs waiting to be triggered by the change in season. I’m glad I did it yesterday when it was a bit warm still, because today is just cold and gloomy. All that elbow-twisting in the dirt with the circular bulb-planter device left me with a tweak in the neck-shoulder. Meh. Ibuprofen.
And for your pleasure:

Just Chillin’

The Global Machinery of Climate-Change blew over and laid-down a blanket of “Sierra Cement” (aka = snow) over the Thanksgiving holiday, and now we folk on the down-slope get to enjoy our traditional-seasonal Frostie, as the chilled-air from the mountains rolls down and fridgidizes the ambient surroundings: woke up at 31-degrees and it didn’t crack 62-degrees outside today. More time for indoor sport I guess as long as it doesn’t involve too much house-cleaning. Thanks Algore, see you on the iceberg!

Happy Thanksgiving

The main storm had blown through in the night and another was forecast for the afternoon, so with chains in sack in the back, we hit the road to Tahoe. Forest Route 5 (Mormon Emigrant Trail/ Iron Mountain road) through Sly Park was closed at the end where it meets Highway 88 due to snow, so we took Highway 50 figuring if the snow was too deep and chains were required, the most help we might find would be on 50 anyhow.
Fortunately no chains were required and with a little coaching from the Chain-Control guy holding a STOP-sign, I managed to find 4-Wheel Hi for the third time in ten years…
We parked at the Heavenly Gondola and made our way to Base Camp Pizzeria for lunch – the same (popular) Menu as Wally’s in Cameron Park! The gondola was churning with skiers and we opted-out of that experience.
For the first time in many years there was snow on the lake-shore, and right outside our hotel door – so my wife made a snow angel.
We had a light late-lunch and retired for the night, anticipating the big Thanksgiving Dinner on Thursday – and it did not disappoint, with the best oysters I ever had – fresh and clean with not a speck of grit or brine, Alaskan crab legs, shrimp, Prime rib that melted in your mouth, a bit of turkey breast – it was a buffet of the absolute highest standard. And a bit of dessert.
Black Friday dawned cold but clear, and with the anticipation of a massive crowd-scene at the resorts, we packed our bags and hit the road again, homeward bound. Once again there was only light traffic in our direction, but as we approached Strawberry and later Kyburz, the on-coming traffic was clearly stacking up, and at Apple Hill it was a dead-stop traffic-jam going in the Tahoe direction, mainly because Apple Hill is a Christmas tree-cutting destination and seasonal attraction. Good to be home!
PS: Fidel Castro is dead! YEAH!!

Screw it, I’m painting!

Picked-up the deck-paint order at HD and it’s a nice warm day today – I’m puttin’ down some paint while this lasts! Tomorrow the forecast is rain in the early AM, and the mower can sit out for that — and I don’t want to wait around for Springtime to get this done.
So, around noon time I rolled on the primer which was more like Elmer’s glue than anything else, hopped in the truck and took the 4-gal bucket back to HD for a whole lotta shakin’ and the special closed-cell foam roller-applicator. A fuzzy polyester roller just wouldn’t work with this goop.
By the time I got back the primer had set-up enough to start rolling it out. Sticky-gooey gritty-messy delicious weird junk that came out of the bucket-spout like runny peanut-butter – but first I cut-in around the base with a disposable brush, because this and the roller-pan tray was not getting a clean-up.

Now I hope it sets-up and cures over the next few days – I’m gonna leave it alone till Monday or Tuesday anyhow.


Last of the Tomatoes

I picked the last of the cherry-tomatoes for the last batch of gazpacho this morning. It was cold at 45-degrees, which meant that I didn’t need ice in the blender. The cucumber has big seeds and there was a lot to scrape-out, but the Anaheim pepper I threw-in was easy to seed. I’m gonna need more olive-oil after this, but I’m good on the red-vinegar.
A cold afternoon means I probably won’t get around to painting the shed-floor even if the paint shows-up at Home Depot, because reportedly it has the viscosity of peanut-butter – and may require a different type of roller instead of the fuzzy polyester kind. But the clouds have cleared and the sun is bright and beautiful, and there are no protestors anywhere around here so I don’t have to worry about getting tie-dye on the fender of my truck.


The Emperor of Chicago, little Rodney Emmanuel-Lewis, declared that Chicago would remain a “sanctuary city” irregardless of Federal laws and such.
My biggest surprise was that the boiling puss-pot of the Midwest was ever or would-ever be considered a “sanctuary” by anybody. Who knew that a place of deep political and police corruption, where institutionalized violence is allowed to run free in order to quell the citizenry, would ever be a beacon of sanctuary to anybody? Maybe it’s a glittering palace of earthly delights to some of those farm-boy rubes out in the cornfields, but to Latino families escaping the extreme violence in their own country, jumping from frying pan into the fire?
Doesn’t make any sense.