I said publicly that it was the best book I had ever read: 'Charcoal Foundry' by David Gingery. I was overwhelmed with the thought that simple-me could cast shapes in metal; David almost guranteed me that I could. Noir is my literary meat: Elmore Leonard, Crumley, James Lee Burke, Elroy - what can a pamphlet on fire and bricks and aloominem offer to compare to the smell of blood and gunpowder?
A lot, it seems. As I drift further into metalhead land I am amazed at the possibilities of fabrication. Since I was little I have dreamed of blacksmithing. Forging 'things' from the heart and soul of terra firma - every little boy's dream of power and competence. What does a little boy value more than his pocket knife? What does he wish he could do? Make knives, of course.
With my recent advent into the heavens of 'machine work' I feel myself inexorably pulled toward the secrets of the earth's core. My advent has been Adult Continuation School at Lewiston H.S., Lewiston, Me. What a wonder! For a measly $50 I can go to a machine shop class and be instructed in the use of lathes and mills and surface grinders and power hack saws, and I can go back again and again, for whole 15 weeks. I get to spend 6 hours a week in this ethereal atmosphere 'making chips'. Is it really better than sex? Not really, but it surely does last a lot longer and leaves you with something more than the avoid-it-if-you-can wet spot.
Back to the furnace. The booklet tells me I can build a charcoal foundry out of a 5 gallon metal pail and a few odds and ends, and with this contraption I can melt aloominen, or brass, and I can pour it into sand molds and make parts. I want parts. I desperately seek parts. I long for new wheels for Wallace, the 16" band saw whose stamped sheet metal wheels are an afront to his sturdy cast iron frame. I review the booklet and make a list of what I need. Night falls. I go to bed and cannot sleep for the excitement of it all. Bright streams of molten metal flow in my dreams.
Morning comes and I set out for the local metal recycling scrap yard. The place is a mud hole of 5 or 10 acres that is mounded stories high with the most amazing stuff. Huge machines of no obvious utility rest high beyond reach, precariously balanced on mountains of scrap that appear to shift with the breeze. Motors are up there; they should be saved - they won't be. I have been here before and purchased plate and pipe and other fine stuff at $0.19 per pound. They sell grudgingly. These people don't like you in their yard. It is a nightmare of liability, and I see their point. They must see mine, too. Parking at the top of the road behind rusting hulks I slide into the yard without being sighted. Up and down muddy lanes I traipse eyeballing the edges of the piles. They have told me in the past that I had best not go up on the piles; I can have only what is easily reached. Lookee, lookee, no touchee. Today I am after a five gallon metal bucket. That's all. One little bucket. No one uses them anymore; everything comes in plastic. Aubuchon Hardware has offered to sell such a bucket, provided I take the contents, too, which are roofing tar. Yuck!
Behind a metal shed I find several steel drums. They are smaller than the 55 gallon ones I used to fill for Chevron in Sydney. I measure one: 18" i.d. and 28" high. A little large, but a damned fine drum. Down to the office I go. I snag a lenght of 8" stove pipe on the way. There will be some difficulty. Of this I am certain. I show the lady in the shabby office by the truck scales my stovepipe. She is hardly impressed. I mention the postive plethora of barrels just up the hill. A man behind a computer watches me. The lady says they don't sell the barrels; they are used by customers. I mention that some are crushed and others rusting out with the rainwater in them. The crushed ones needed to be crushed she informs me. The man glances up furtively and nods.
This must be pursued. Only one barrel I say; I only need one barrel. What do you want to do with it the man asks, and I succinctly expound on the wonders of a charcoal foundry. Where do you want to do this, he inquires. Why, in my yard, I tell him. No, what city, he says. Auburn, I respond, but I am suddenly forced to consider the ramifications of intercity sales of empty drums. This is not something I had considered. He has nodded, but I have to wonder what his response might have been if I had said that my yard was across the river in Lewiston, or even up the road in Turner....? Perhaps there is a barrel-sellers guild and secret treaties to protect.
The lady gets on her walkie-talkie and tells Phil I am coming to see him for a decision. She tells me to go to the metal building, and I leave and head back up the hill to the metal shed where the drums are. Fifteen minutes later, ankle deep in mud and losing faith, I ponder just fleeing in my shame and ignorance, versus going back down to the office to match wits with the office-lady. I opt for continued combat and trudge back down the mushy, grey road. I tell her Phil has not shown up. Well, she tells me in return, you didn't go to the metal building. I point out that I went to 'that' metal building up the hill. Well, she goes on, 'that' metal building is the wrong metal building. Phil is in another metal building. Ah, I tell her, how stupid of me - and by the way, how much for this piece of stove pipe? Five dollars she says. I nod. The minimum cash purchase is five dollars, she adds. Oh, I smile, then the barrel and the pipe might be five dollars all together, I suggest. She stares at me grimly. The furtive man says that maybe Phil might sell me a barrel with a hole in the bottom, if I don't mind. Me, mind? Not a chance.
I find Phil standing by a forklift in a metal building. We talk barrels. He leads me to some 55 gallon drums. I tell him of the ones up the hill that are smaller and just going to waste. He points to the larger ones. Phil is also grim; I think maybe his hardhat is too small and he has a headache. I tell him I really like the smaller ones. He agrees that they are nice. Five dollars? I ask him. He nods, but adds that I can only have one.
Back at the office I give the lady her five dollars and tell her that the godly Phil has sanctified my purchase. Then I add that I know how busy they are and how they don't really like to deal with small customers, but that I really do thank them for their time and interest and help. Huge smiles are returned by both the lady and the furtive man. It's as if a sudden end to Lent has just been announced. I get my goods and go.
That is a bit long-winded, but it all interested me. Now we move on to Derek, the forge instructor at the New England School of Metal Work.
The New England School of Metal Work is one of those private institutions that any community would be luckyt to have. You can read about them on their website. I found Derek, and he had nothing better to do than talk to me. We looked at the furnaces a class had just made: 10 students, and each made a furnace in this class at a total cost of $495. Ouch, I said. He told me it would cost twice that to go out and buy one. I was asking about refractory linings. He showed me his solution. Kaowool. It is very similar to ordinary looking insulation, but a one inch thickness of it holds in 3000 degrees F. No bulk and no weight to speak of. We chatted for a bit longer. A very nice guy.
Now, to go back a step. The Gingery Charcoal Foundry is a primitive affair. It is something anyone can build and use. That is the point of it. The basics are: a metal container, a refractory lining that leaves an empty midsection, and a lid. An air hole is placed near the bottom and goes thru the lining into the empty middle; air is forced thru the hole so that it comes in at the bottom of the fire. The midde, that part left empty inside the refractory lining, is filled with fuel, charcoal in this case. A crucible, which is just a pot, sits on top of the fuel and metal is melted in this. A refractory lid goes over this during the firing. The heat of the fire is adjusted by the air flow in the bottom.
It is that simple. To explain a little, a refractory material both stops heat from going thru it to ignite stuff on the other side, and it reflects heat back toward the source. The possibilites are fire brick, refractory cement, and Gingery's home made mix of one part fire clay to 2 parts silica sand - this is mixed up as a stiff mortar and then gets fired into a hard substance the first time the furnace is lit off. The lid has to be made like this and is fired in your oven for several hours. Gingery's mix is the cheapest way to go, if you can find fire clay. I could not. Having it shipped to you might get expensive. Fire bricks are about a buck and a quarter each. This wouldn't be too bad if I had just gotten the five gallon pail, but.... Refractory cement is a dollar a pound in a dry mix. The other option, that presented by Derek is Kaowool, a synthetic product invented to replace asbestos. Their Cerablanket is either $6.95/' or $90 for 25'. I got the big roll, expecting some of you will want to do this and buy my extra from me.
My thought at this time is to go over to a propane fired system. Derek pointed out the hassles of charcoal as a fuel. He showed me how his little furnaces could be turned up on end, the back bricks taken out, and a crucible put in place. I believe I will need to turn some of the parts for the propane system on a lathe - does anyone have plans, or any ideas? Anyway, the Kaowool lining probably isn't physically up to having charcoal stacked against it anyway. I forsee lining the 8" stove pipe with Kaowool, dropping that down into the middle of the drum, and just pouring sand all around it to keep it in place. I can fab a lid similarly. Not sure just yet how to hold the crucible in place, but since I will be melting aloominen and brass braces made of iron would work.
I have no thought of moving on to casing iron yet. It takes a hell of a lot more heat and a lot of skill that I can develop in casting softer metals. The whole business of green sand casting, pattern making - ah, that is wonderful in its own right, but first comes the furnace.
Glad to hear from anyone with experience, ideas, or a good joke. don e.
