As soon as Dad thought the time had come, he placed his children onto “the tractor seat” so we could begin learning how to drive. I recall not feeling at all ready when my time came, but I dared not to disappoint Dad. From day one of equipment operation, Dad hounded us about safety. His rules were strict, and they still make perfect sense in my adult years: Always step on the clutch before starting a tractor; always set the brakes when you leave the tractor; never leave the seat with the Power-Take-Off still running; when on steep ground, run the hills up and down and always turn toward the high side when on a sideways-lean. (Dad was quite familiar with tractor rollovers.  He rolled a tractor in Fremont, Ohio in the late 50’s, which broke his pelvis and placed him into a body cast for some time).  These were the laws.  Dad made it clear that failure to follow the laws and/or careless behavior would terminate our tractor privileges.

Soon, when the initial fear of tractor driving subsided, the act of driving a tractor became very cool.  It made me feel important. While driving, I often thought about my “city friends” in town who did not get to do the cool farm things that were available to me.  The real passage to manhood came when Dad released me to use a tractor—so long as the chore required it— without asking his permission, even if he was not at home!  This was a real issuance of trust and responsibility and was not to be abused. While I did not misuse that responsibility in the context of the following incident, I perhaps was not as experienced as I needed to be and should have had my privileges revoked for a time.

It was a bright Saturday afternoon in late summer.  The year was probably 1978 or 1979, which would have made me 11 or 12 years old. The pastures, which no longer had cattle on them, were quite tall with plant growth and needed mowing. I took the initiative and hooked up our 460 to the 5-foot Bush Hog and went to work.  The first plot was a flat section immediately south of the barn. This was always an easy, warm-up place to mow, as it had no slopes or tricky areas that would cause concern for a young operator.

Let me add another important piece of information at this point in the story. I mentioned that the pastures no longer had cattle on them. Dad got out of the cattle business in the mid-70’s and, of course, the pastures thus grew up like crazy.  Dad arranged a deal with Wayne Miller, our dairy-farmer neighbor to the north, to bale round bales on the pasture. Dad charged him nothing, but asked only that we retain one-third of the round bales to feed our sheep through the winter. Well, the pasture was baled in 1977, I believe. Wayne would come through periodically over the ensuing weeks with his big 9600 Ford with bale-knife and tote a bale to his home. While Wayne did leave us one-third of the hay bales for our use, he never moved them to the barn for us. We had no means of moving round bales, and thus the bales remained scattered about the pasture to decay and go to waste.

Back to my day of mowing. The second plot to be mowed was a 2-acre bottom piece that was out of the view of the house and barn.  It was surrounded by trees with a stream along the southern edge and a steep hillside on the north. The plant growth was so tall in this plot—easily taller than the 460’s rear tires.  I loved tearing into a sea of weeds such as this and making it look pretty. After opening the field up, I was making a pass with the un-mowed area to my left. Thus I was staring down toward the right rear tire, keeping the un-mowed grass inside of the tire. This was the only thing I was paying attention to. Suddenly, I was jolted in the seat as the 460 lurched violently. I was still looking at the ground to my right, and it seemed to be getting closer. I did not know what was happening in this eternal millisecond. Looking back to my left, I was horrified to see the 460’s left rear tire scratching its way over the top of an old round bale, which had been perfectly concealed in the tall plant growth. I immediately hit the clutch and brakes as the tire completed its orbit of the bale and slammed back to the ground. This caused the right tire to rise off of the ground, and the tractor rocked from side to side before finally coming to a rest. I killed the engine and sat there shaking uncontrollably for several minutes. When I had regained my composure, I looked around to see if anyone, particularly my Dad, had been in the field to witness the mishap. I saw no one. When I found the nerve to start the tractor, I wondered how I was going to free myself from this bale.  It was wedged between the tire and the Bush Hog. It turned out to be no problem.  I merely drove forward and the bale slid away form the mower.

I don’t remember if I had enough courage to continue mowing that day. However, I do know that I never did tell Dad about this incident. I knew I had screwed up, and I didn’t want Dad to know. It wasn’t out of fear of punishment, but out of fear of disappointing him. It remained my secret. From that experience I learned to continually scan all sides of the tractor, even when I’m “positive” that there are no hazards nearby.

That’s probably the closest I have come to death in my 36 years. Fortunately, it was not my time, and I still have opportunities to amend my life.  Please be careful out there, and stay prayed-up. We know not the day or the hour... --Bill