Uncle Tim Tillotson produced these pages from the records of Tillotson Construction Company. They show standards for rebar used in the company’s elevators. Notes are in his hand.
Uncle Tim Tillotson produced these pages from the records of Tillotson Construction Company. They show standards for rebar used in the company’s elevators. Notes are in his hand.
The Tillotson elevator at Pocahontas, Iowa, first came to our attention as the site of a tragic accident where a young construction worker lost his life. Larry Ryan fell to his death because he tripped while crossing from the elevator to the annex on a makeshift wooden walkway, according to fellow workers. He wore brand new work boots and some speculated that they contributed to the accident. The young hoist operator was twenty years old when he fell 130 feet to his death from the top of the nearly completed annex in 1954.
I finally had the opportunity to see the site for myself this past summer. We took a wide detour north of our regular route from Nebraska to Illinois–it added a good four hours driving time, not counting the stops. My young cheering section (the kids) were not cheering about the extra road time.
Upon our arrival in Pocahontas, a town along Lizard Creek in north central Iowa miles away from any major state thoroughfares, we immediately noticed the Tillotson elevator and its trademark rounded headhouse. The annex stood beside the original elevator, rising higher (by 10 feet) than its 120 foot companion, and gleaming with clean whitewashed concrete. It showed no sign of its sorrowful beginnings.
Later additions, including an elevator with headhouse, a flat storage shed, old steel hoppers, and modern steel bins with external legs, surrounded the two concrete structures.
The Tillotson elevator and annex were flanked on one side by a quiet street with an old church and ancient maple trees. The bustle of grain trucks was absent on the Sunday afternoon of our visit, and the co-op office was closed. Only the elevator exhaust fans pierced the silence.
We circled the complex, taking a number of photographic views, before going on our way.
We have the specifications for both the 1949 elevator and its 1954 annex. The annex construction record is detailed here.
The Pocahontas annex was built with six 18-foot diameter, 10-foot spread by 130-foot high bins; with a basement; the bins were flat bottomed, built with 30-inch belt conveyors and tripper.
Planned capacity (with pack) was 222,440 bushels; translating to 1,863 bushels of capacity per foot of height. The total reinforced concrete, per plans, was 1,366 cubic yards. Plain concrete for hoppers, per plans, was 9.5 cubic yards, and reinforcing steel used, including jack rods, was 69.59 tons.
The design specified the average quantity of reinforcing steel used for the whole annex, which was 101.89 pounds per cubic yard of concrete. Actual planned amounts were then itemized for various components of the structure:
Main slab: 27,017 lbs. steel/219 c.y. concrete
Drawform walls: 30,708 lbs. steel/990 c.y. concrete
Overhead bin bottoms: 9,957 lbs. steel/70.5 c.y. concrete
Bin roof and extension roofs: 6,740 lbs. steel/44 c.y. concrete
Cupola walls: 3,747 lbs. steel/33 c.y. concrete
Cupola roof: included in walls
Bridge/Tunnel: 1,020 lbs. steel/9.5 c.y. concrete
Dimensions and weight of the annex and its components were laid out also. The main slab was 52′ x 60′, for an actual outside area on the ground of 2,946 square feet.
The weight of reinforced concrete, calculated at 4,000 pounds per cubic yard of concrete plus steel, was 2,801 tons. The plain concrete was also calculated at 4,000 pounds per cubic yard and totaled 19 tons. The weight of the hopper fill sand was 177 tons.
When the weight of grain was added to the specifications, at 60 pounds per bushel (for Pocahontas, the grain load would total 6,660 tons), the planned gross weight of the annex could be predicted. Twelve tons of steel and machinery were added to the total, for a planned gross weight, loaded, of 9,669 tons.
From these figures, bearing pressure was calculated to be 3.28 tons per square foot.
To handle all of that pressure, the main slab was made 24 inches thick. It was built with #8 steel, placed at 6″ c.c. spacing. Tank steel and bottoms (for round tanks) used #4 steel at 9″ c.c. spacing.
The drawform walls, with extension, measured 411 linear feet, and 130 feet in height. Cupola dimensions were 16′ x 56′ x 8 1/3′.
Since this was an annex, distribution of grain was accomplished through the main elevator leg and thence by belt conveyors and a tripper. Many of the items expected for elevator specifications were absent for an annex. For machinery, the annex had top and bottom belts, rated at 600’/min or 3,000 bushels per hour. 7 1/2 horsepower drives were used for a total load rate of 9,000 bushels per hour.
Loading rates are key for grain storage operations, since they determine how quickly trucks or rail cars can unload and be on their way. Slow elevators become obsolete. The Pocahontas operation was at the leading edge of technology with its shiny new 1954 annex, and to this day it provides quick, efficient service.
Some mysteries are not meant to be solved. Perhaps it is a natural outgrowth of my grandmother’s tight-lipped discretion where evil tidings were concerned. I can remember the disapproving purse of her lips if I broached the wrong topic–it was wise to move on.
Alice Christoffersen married William Osborn in the 1920s. All anyone in our family could know about those times was conveyed in the pleasant images of a young couple goofing around by the lake and fishing. In later pictures you could see the pained expression of a long-suffering middle-aged woman, but her concerns were private, at least when they brought bad memories to mind.
My dad, Jerry Osborn, was quite amazed to find he had a deceased great-uncle, whose name had never been spoken in front of him. Alice Christoffersen’s maternal uncle, Albert Skoog, died young from injuries sustained in a horrific automobile crash when she was a young woman. The story was relegated to the darkest recesses, never to be mentioned again.
“Albert Skoog Dies from Effects of an Auto Accident
Had Lived Nearly Ten Months with a Broken Back
After living nearly ten months with a broken back, during which time he suffered untold agony, Albert Skoog, 42, formerly and employee of the Fremont Stock Yards, died at the home of his sister, Mrs. James L. Christoffersen, south of Fremont. Death was due to injuries sustained in a automobile accident on the Lincoln Highway about a mile east of Fremont last October….”
The article went on to describe the accident and his medical treatment. He died in the family home of Alice’s parents.
No stone marks his grave. It took many years to locate pictures of him, preserved by a different branch of the Christoffersen clan. Images of the wrecked car also survived, tucked away in Grandma’s photo album. But such things were not discussed in my grandmother’s world.
Another side of Grandma’s personality was not so discrete–she would tell stories that put others in a bad light when she thought she could gain favor for herself. This habit got worse as she aged, and by the time she passed on at age 98, family members believed awful stories about each other because of things she said.
We have tried, without success, to verify Grandma’s story of why my grandpa, William Osborn, got out of the elevator business. Perhaps she invented it. We have no way to tell.
Dad never had an inkling about why his dad quit (except that he heard in whispers not intended for him) until Mom started poking around. Grandma told her the story, apparently in a fit of pique. Details were fuzzy, and by now, not well remembered. There’s hardly more to it than speculation. But that one glimpse was the only information we ever got. Otherwise, it “wasn’t discussed,” as Dad put it.
Mom says an elevator was built, and very shortly thereafter, failed. She variously used the terms “collapse,” “explosion,” and “fire.” But the two things she was pretty consistent about were the facts that the concrete mix was wrong because the crew had shorted the materials (possibly for financial gain), and that the collapse occurred as soon as the elevator was filled with grain for the first time. That is all she remembers from what Grandma told her.
Dad says his father was out of the business by 1955. Dad remembers that his dad had come home to Fremont, Neb., from Denver, Colo., the home base of his business, that summer when he should have been on the job. He thinks that his dad was blamed for the failure–Bill’s partner, Gene Mayer, apparently went on without him. But that is all we have.
We don’t know where it happened and haven’t found a newspaper story. We know a large terminal elevator collapsed that year in Fargo, N.D., but we discovered the identity of that builder and it wasn’t Mayer-Osborn. There were whispers about an elevator that had a bad headhouse around Linn, Kan., or Bradshaw, Neb., which might have been his, but that story hasn’t been verified or dated.
The only story I can verify is the tear-down and restart of the Mayer-Osborn elevator in Blencoe, Iowa. The concrete mix was wrong there, and it cost a few days and quite a lot of money to correct. Could that relatively mundane event in 1954 have created a rift between the partners, Bill Osborn and Gene Mayer? Was the tale of a more dramatic accident simply angry gossip from my grandmother?
Until we know more, it is a skeleton yet to be found, buried in a very deep closet.
Commentary by Tim Tillotson
Note: What follows is from a phone interview on May 14. He tells of a grain elevator repair job undertaken for Ted Morris, who by 1959 was a former employee of Tillotson Construction Company.
Ted Morris was the pilot. He worked in the office with Wayne doing the drawing and getting the specs together. He flew Dad when Dad would go out to the jobs. Ted used to take me flying out to the job. He was a fun guy, good natured. He tried going into business himself. Matter of fact, when Mart and I got married, we went out to York, Nebraska, to do a repair job that he had a contract on, in the dead of the winter. That was in ’59. It was Bellwood–the one that had the explosion. It blew the damn headhouse apart. Mart and I were married in November ’59 and we went out.
They were dumping grain in the drive pits to feed it up to the tanks. It was cold and also windy, I believe. When they rolled the damn overhead doors down to shut off the wind tunnel through the drive, the dust built up and that was also a job … I don’t know who decided not to lag the head pulley; it’s like putting a tire on a steel wheel. I don’t know what the hell was supposed to be such a big savings. I don’t know we were the only ones that did it, the other grain elevator contractors did, too, they quit lagging the head pulley. That big pulley would slip for a little bit till it got some speed up. Eventually, they found out the hard way, it was taking the facing off the back of the belt and exposing the fiber web in it. The damn web spots would get hot and start on fire.
When I say we would lag the pulley, we didn’t do it. Where we purchased the pulley, they did it before they shipped. There was supposed to be some kind of cost savings. When you’re trying to pull 110, 120 foot of belt, with grain, it takes quite a bit to get thing rolling.
I guess because of the wind, they closed the overhead doors. The dust built up from the trucks just dumpin’ that grain, you can imagine, and it built up, The fire actually started in the boot pit. They were running that grain up, and I think they stopped the belt for a little bit because somebody went down into the pit to grease the bearing, and there was a fire and it exploded. It slammed him into the little steel ladder. The fire went right up the leg well, which was full of dust, and it just blew out in the headhouse.
The distributor floor was quite a height off the roof deck in the headhouse, and of course it was up overhead. You had to have some heights for the spider legs that went out to the tubes. That’s where it did its big explosion. It had enough force to actually bulge the headhouse walls. The distributor floor was concrete but held in place by a key way in the headhouse wall. They call it a key way when you slip the headhouse walls at a certain level. You put tapered two-by-four blocks in the forms that you could peel out later like teeth, so when you poured the floor it went into the keyways and that’s what held the distributor floor walls up. The explosion bulged the headhouse walls out so that they turned loose that distributor floor, which left it standing on the feed pipes that went into the tanks.
I’m trying to remember if Bellwood was the one with the galley out to the annex blowing the windows out of it, and it knocked the tripper–a little feeder that went out across the annex building and would fill whatever tanks you wanted–off its tracks.
They were doing the repair on it. I think we pulled off because the temperature was so damn low you couldn’t put your bare hand on a piece of metal; it would stick. I remember we come back into Omaha and wasn’t out there that long. Mart and I came back to Omaha, stayed at my Uncle Ralph (Hassman’s) house, Johnny’s dad, before we got that apartment on the second floor of an old house that was turned into an apartment on Izard Street. That’s when I went to work for Leo A. Daly, the architects, in Omaha, for $300 a month. I went to work for them on the drawing table.
We were actually in York. It might have been a different repair job. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure it was one of Dad’s elevators. We were married on Armistice Day of ’59. We had to be out there in December. I was working for Daly maybe a week when Dad passed on January 5, 1960.
The York job was a repair, and it was a repair from an explosion but nothing compared to Bellwood. I remember we were up in the headhouse when were there. The one asshole I didn’t know, and either did the other guy. He loaded, like, a shoebox on the floor with acetylene ’cause it’s a heavy gas, and it laid down in that box, and he turned around and threw a match over there and that that box blew up. I damn near ran off the frigging roof to get out of that headhouse. He thought that was so damn funny. I was about ready to bust him. I don’t like his sense of humor.
Ted wasn’t doing well at the business. I remember a time or two he called Mother. He was distraught, he wasn’t making it. I don’t remember what happened to Ted.
In Michigan for some meetings and library research, I drove along the back road in Lima Township between the towns of Chelsea and Dexter and came upon an elevator.
Seeing me taking pictures, an employee asked if he could help me with anything. Identifying myself as a grain elevator buff, I received an invitation to come into the office. So I climbed up a steel ladder, entered a dock area, and passed through two doors leading into a warm office.
Photos on the wall showed the elevator when it must have been new in the mid-1950s. I’d noticed a “B” on the manhole cover, but the name of the builder was unknown. However, I was told that laborers from the state prison in Jackson worked on the construction.
Chelsea Grain LLC has operated the elevator a relatively short time. (It made news in 2013 after the local fire department responded to an incident involving a grain dryer.)
The answer: “Blisters.”
I dashed back to the car to fetch a business card. By the time I returned, a drawing had been prepared by way of answering.
Yet, this term begs for elaboration, which perhaps our readers can provide.
Meantime, thanks to Chelsea Grain for the hospitality.
During every elevator scouting trip, there comes a fork in the road where we choose which elevator to see, and which to save for another time. On the way home from Nebraska this summer we came to such a place at the junction of Iowa Route 175 and US 69 in central Iowa. To the north I could see the silhouette of an elevator at Jewell, and just east from Jewell, across the South Skunk River, the town of Ellsworth beckoned. But as I checked my map, to the south I saw Randall, which was a familiar name. I elected to turn south onto US 69.
The name should have been familiar, because it is found in several places in the Tillotson Construction Company records. The elevator in the central Iowa town of Randall was built in 1949 using the “Dike Plan.”
In the company records for subsequent projects at West Bend and Pocahontas, Iowa, both built using the Dike plan, the quantities of concrete and steel and the machinery details were summarized with the shorthand, “Like Randall,” for each project. The Dike plan was widely used for Tillotson’s quarter-million-bushel elevators.
The Randall elevator and its annexes overlooked a silent street of empty storefronts on that quiet Sunday. The co-op office looked new and efficient. The town was a perfect snapshot of the principle of economy-of-scale: the small business, like the small farm operation, must grow, combine forces, or die.
We have the construction records for Randall’s elevator and its siblings in West Bend and Pocahontas, which vary in minor details. Randall’s specifications follow.
Capacity per plans (with Dock): 252,000 bushels
Capacity per foot of height: 2,520 bushels
Reinforced concrete per plans (total): 2,066 cubic yards
Plain concrete (hoppers): 40 cubic yards
Reinforcing steel per plans (including jack rods): 109.37 tons
Average steel per cubic yard reinforced concrete: 106 pounds
Steel and reinforced concrete itemized per plans:
Below main slab: 4,637 pounds steel, 40 cubic yards concrete
Main slab: 39,291 pounds steel, 266 cubic yards concrete
Drawform walls: 129,000 pounds steel, 1,430 cubic yards concrete
Work and Driveway floor (including columns): 3,700 pounds steel, 24 cubic yards concrete
Deep bin bottoms: 11,832 pounds steel, 58 cubic yards concrete
Overhead Bin bottoms: 4,876 pounds concrete, 30 cubic yards concrete
Bin roof (or garner): 8,791 pounds steel, 56 cubic yards concrete
Scale floor (complete): none
Cupola walls: 8,404 pounds steel, 92 cubic yards concrete
Distributor floor: 1,848 pound steel, 11 cubic yards concrete
Cupola roof: 2,360 pounds steel, 18 cubic yards concrete
Misc. (boot, leg, head, track sink, steps, etc.): 3,000 pounds steel, 30 cubic yards concrete
Attached driveway: 1000 pounds steel, 11 cubic yards concrete (driveway extension, walls and roof)
Main slab dimensions (drive length first dimension): 60′ x 72 1/2′
Main slab area (actual outside on ground): 4,200 square feet
Weight reinforced (total) concrete (4000 pounds per cubic yard plus steel): 4,241 tons
Weight plain concrete (hoppers 4000 pounds per cubic yard): 74 tons
Weight hopper fill sand (3000 pounds per cubic yard): 985 tons
Weight of grain (at 60 pounds per bushel): 7,560 tons
Weight of structural steel and machinery: 20 tons
Gross weight loaded: 12,880 tons
Bearing pressure: 3.06 tons per square foot
Main slab thickness: 21″
Main slab steel: bent 1″ square at 7″ o. c. spacing
Tank steel and bottom (round tanks): 1/2″ diameter at 9″ o. c. spacing
Lineal feet of drawform walls: 655 excluding extension
Height of drawform walls: 120′
Pit depth below main slab: 14’9″
Cupola dimensions (outside width x length x height): 24 1/2′ x 50 1/4′ x 40′
Pulley centers: 165.25′
Number of legs: 1
Distributor floor: yes
Track sink: yes
Full basement: yes
Electrical room: yes
Driveway width clear: 12′
Dump grate size: 2 at 9′ x 6′ and 9′ x 14′
Column under tanks size: 20″ square
Boot legs and head: concrete
Boot pulley: 72″ x 14″ x 2 3/16″
Head pulley: 72″ x 14″ x 3 15/16″
R.P.M. Head pulley: 42
Belt: 355′, 14″ 6 ply Calumet
Cups: 12″ x 6″ at 8 1/2″ o. c. spacing
Head drive: Howell 40 horsepower [3 circled here]
Theoretical leg capacity (cup manufacturers rating): 7,920 bushels per hour
Actual leg capacity (80% of theoretical rating): 6,340 bushels per hour
Horsepower required for leg (based on above actual capacity plus 15% for motor): 32 horsepower
Man lift: 2 horsepower Ehr.
Load out scale: 10 Bu. Rich.
Load out spout: 10″ w.c.
Cupola spouting: 10″ diameter 14 gauge
Truck lift: 7 1/2 horsepower Ehr.
Dust collector system: Fan to bin
Driveway doors: 2 overhead rolling
3 bin distributor under scale
Provision for hopper scale