My Great Grandfather’s Influence

Heading to the Iowa State Fair.

I’ve been told it’s obvious that I’m Irish because I don’t know how to tell a short story. First, it turns out I’m not Irish. Second, here goes.

I first fell in love with the idea of creating miniatures when I was a young boy. I was regaled with stories of my great-grandfather, William Webster, an Iowa farmer who inherited an undiagnosed neuromuscular disease (which I inherited from him) that forced him into early retirement.

Unable to work the fields, he taught himself how to whittle. At first, he created small, crude wooden figures. But, with practice, his skill advanced quickly.

Soon, his tiny figures began to incorporate moving pieces — arms and legs swivelled, heads turned, torsos bent — and he decided that something was needed to control these movements.

He set about collecting spare machine parts: pulleys, belts, gears, and other pieces pilfered from an old washing machine. With these, he created what would be the first of seven fully operational automata miniature farms.

A single motor operated an extensive collection of miniature figures spread across a 1:12 scale wooden diorama, set on a base approximately the size of a standard sheet of plywood. The narrative that unfolded was so mesmerizing that friends and neighbours encouraged him to share his work with a wider audience.

It was the early 1940s and most people were involved in one of the many theatres of war at that time. Those who remained were sacrificing luxuries for the war effort. Entertainment, in any form, was a welcome distraction from their hardships.

William decided to place the model on a retrofitted trailer which he then capped with a wooden cover. Pulling this behind his old work truck, he visited numerous local fairs and festivals across Iowa where he would erect a large canvas tent over the trailer before unsealing the model. Those who fancied a glimpse were afforded an unlimited view for the reasonable ticket price of 5 cents. The attraction was a huge success. Word spread and soon, he received requests from neighbouring states to appear at their respective events.

However, before he could accept these new offers, he was presented with one he couldn’t turn down — outright purchase of the model by an ardent collector. Money was very tight and the sale not only helped the family get through some lean times, it left enough for William to build a second farm, which he did in record time, loading it on the trailer and touring the Midwest United States.

By this point, the ticket price had risen to 10 cents, which did not deter the crowds. He was invited to the famous Iowa State Fair where the attention it brought attracted new parties interested in purchasing his incredible creation.

In the end, William Webster created seven of the automaton farms, selling six of them before finally parking the last model in a shed on his farm. This eventually found its way into my grandmother’s garage in Cottonwood, Arizona, where as a young boy, I eyed the sealed box, looking as big as a horse’s coffin, like it were a pirate’s lifetime haul of booty.

It was not until the summer of 2000 that I finally had my chance to view the automaton farm. The trailer had been moved to my uncle’s home in Camp Verde, Arizona, sealed and well preserved in the arid desert climate.

My sweetheart and I asked if we could view the model and my uncle was only too happy to indulge us. Stored in a large workshop on his property, the now 50+ year-old trailer had to have its dusty tarp removed before unsealing the huge lid. We carefully walked it back away from the trailer to reveal the seventh, and final, automaton farm my great-grandfather had created.

I was amazed at the condition of the model. The paint was a bit faded but the structure was intact. After checking for scorpions and black widow spiders, my uncle reached below the model’s base and began cranking a large pulley by hand. Immediately, the entire farm sprang to life.

Workers pitched hay; women hung laundry; boys swung their legs off a porch over a small creek; a rooster crowed on the top of the barn. One of the more talked about features in newspaper clippings was the dog who stood with its paws astride the top of a split rail fence, staring at the viewer — its tiny wooden tongue, smaller than a rice grain, darting in and out of its mouth.

Within seconds, four grown adults turned into bright-eyed children. It was mesmerizing. I was astounded that my great-grandfather could engineer such a comprehensive display, especially while dealing with a neurological disorder he didn’t understand.

We took turns hand cranking the machine. We could have explored the farm for hours. It was a special treat. I only regret that I never thought to have a camera with me at the time.

I have since searched for any information about the remaining automata. The only lead I have found is a miniature museum in San Francisco which shared a story about an automaton farm they had acquired. The black and white photos were too grainy to make out any details but the description seemed remarkably similar. I have yet to follow up on that lead.

In the meantime, if you should come across any information on an antique automaton farm out there, I would love to hear from you.