Unborn On The 4th Of July

What could possibly be more interesting than life on the farm?

Death on the farm. Definitely “death on the farm”…

“He gave his life in service of his country.”

Usually when you hear that phrase you’re bound to assume that a “fallen soldier” is the topic of the solemn and hushed conversation you’ve just awkwardly intruded upon. But what if I told you that’s not always the case? Truly, there are other unsung heroes across the Fruited Plain of this great nation that have laid down their life–or at least came darn tootin’ close–for the betterment of their fellow citizens. Case in point: the Semi-Involuntary Farm Boy.

And I’m here to tell you first hand: the danger is very real and very present…

Let me be real with you: I hated growing up on the farm. Me and agriculture? We simply didn’t get along. But on the bright side, it sure is nice having a tidy collection of Crazy Farming Stories in my back pocket, ever-ready for whenever I need to impress my city-slicker friends.

Amongst my favorite of these are what I call the Near-Tragedy Trifecta: the 3 consecutive¹Okay, so technically I think these unfolded over the span of about a week. days in July 1999 where my life played out eerily similar to what I imagine a farm-themed installment of the infamous Final Destination movie franchise would indubitably have looked like–with the exception that I managed to walk away relatively unscathed.

For context, the Summer of ’99 was the summer between high school and college for me, and I spent it toiling away with my dad on our family farm so I could buy a car of my own. Surprisingly, this is the first time I’ve talked about that summer in these parts, because, whew-wee, boy! That was one crazy-ass summer!

In Exhibit A, I present to you here, in non-chronological order, 3 of the several times I probably should have died over the course of those 3 months…

Sunday, July 4, 1999: Around the Fourth of July that year, my dad and stepmom decided to celebrate the birth of this fine nation…at the Prairie Band of Potawatomi Nation, in the finest casino their reservation had to offer, that is! Since said nation/reservation/casino was on the other side of the state, they kindly left me in charge of the basic day-to-day operations of our farm in their absence.

Now, when the farm is in “just keep shit running before you run off to hang out with you honey” mode, one of the primary tasks is to make sure that the crops are being watered, and this usually means making the rounds to check whether all the farm’s irrigation motors and sprinklers are running. On the morning of the Fourth, my grandma and I were hauling tail around Morton County doing just that, me with high hopes of knocking my duties out early and being able to take off to Beaver (Oklahoma) to celebrate the day away with my Amazonian girlfriend, Teri.

Well, the Law of Averages will tell you that if you have 7 irrigation motors, then at least 1 of them is not going to be running when you go to check on it, and sure enough a motor on one of our pumps was in need of being brought back to life.

After some basic maintenance, I went to crank that bad boy back up, and tentatively pressed the ignition button, praying to hear that sweet sweet hum of staying on schedule to see my lady friend.

Engine: “Vroom! Huff-chuff-huff-chuff!”

Me: “Oh, ----- yeah. Ain’t nothing gonna keep me away from Beaver tonight!”

Engine: “VROOOOOOOOOOM!”

Me: “The ----- you say, Mr. Engine?!?”

Driveshaft *Wildly flapping around at a few thousand RPMs*: “Wheeee! Look at me, I’m a helicopter!

Stunned, I sat there staring in awe as it spun out for about 30 more seconds before losing its momentum and coming to a stop…though it took my racing heart another 30 minutes to return to normal afterwards.

After a quick investigation, it was discovered that the bolts fastening the motor to the driveshaft had just straight-up snapped off–ergo the 3000 RPM, 40-pound chopper wannabe that had just been spinning way to close to my cranium.

Fortunately, though, the mechanical failure had been on the motor end of the shaft, otherwise had it came loose from the pump side, the motor would have kept spinning it faster and faster. And, based on where I had been standing, there’s no doubt in my mind that my final, violent moments would have horrifically included getting my skull bashed in and a couple of my precious limbs grotesquely maimed.

The good news is that I ended up making it to my Beaver-based booty call later that day.²PG-rated, that is. Given that I was thiiiiis close to being on the wrong side of a closed-casket funeral, I would definitely call that a win…

Thursday, July 1, 1999 (est.): Irrigation engines must have really had it out for me that week. Mere days previous to the Drive-shaft/Helicopter Brain-Basher incident, Dad had sent me a few miles from we were working to check up on a different pump engine in a nearby field.

Now, on the Farm of Bob J., there were many idiosyncrasies, and this particular engine fell squarely in that category. As I recall, it had a bad battery on it, and so you could only use it to start the engine–but if you left it connected after that it would short-circuit and explode. Fun times, indeed, right?

Also, this engine ran on natural gas, but for some reason we didn’t have a proper valve on the gas line. Now for those not in the know, I guess you have to turn the gas supply down pretty low when you start these types of engines (or something like that). In our case though, we had no flow control and were forced to completely remove the fuel hose and then quickly reattach it once the engine got to spinning.

Anyways, this engine had died, and so again, after some basic maintenance and trouble-shooting, I was ready to see if it would fire back up. But instead of turning a key or pushing an ignition button, I had to bend down to where the battery was inexplicably residing on the ground, and re-connect the battery cable.

This was very confusing to me, though. No, not this oblique and convoluted version of “Gentlemen, start your engines!” It was the fire that was so confusing.

HOLY SH*T, WHY WAS THERE ONLY FLAMES WHERE MY ARM SHOULD BE!?

While my brain was processing the philosophical question of whether or not spontaneous human combustion was for realz, my body was busy getting my perhaps-phantom limb the ----- away from that fire lickity-split! Lucky for my dumb ass, my central nervous system had acted quickly enough in yanking my hand out of el fuego that the only damage done was that all the hairs on my arm had been singed off. Once, I got over the shock, I quickly realized what happened and rushed to shut off the emergency valve to the gas.

You see, when I had disconnected the gas line, I hadn’t realized that it was aiming straight down at the battery. And since it was still blasting that beautiful natural gas, it just needed a single tiny spark courtesy of a freshly hooked-up battery cable to turn that ----- into a full-blown flame-thrower!

I guess it just wouldn’t be the Fourth of July without some fireworks, right? I just wish the Universe would quit taking sh*t so literally though…

Well, Dear Reader, originally I had planned on sharing all 3 stories with you in one sitting, but alas, we are out of time for today. But that’s okay! Near-Tragedy Trifecta Tale #3 truly deserves a post dedicated to it alone.

So I guess the point of the story is you have a full week now to build up yourself some anticipation for…”The Tractor Tire Story”–trump-bump-a-dum!

Oh, and for realz, don’t forget to thank a farmer for sacrificing life and limb to keep your face fed. Perhaps you even know one personally…

Content created on: 2 & 4 July 2021 (Fri/Sun)

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