Farming can be a dangerous occupation. A farmer could be gored by a threatened bull, tackled by an angry hog, run over by a combine harvester, or any other mishap could end the profession prematurely. The end of my farming career occurred around the age of 4. It was caused by a terrible misunderstanding or lack of depth perception, but regardless, I was done farming.
The Christmas prior, I received the most wonderful gift. It was the Fisher Price barnyard set. I marveled at it in the ginormous Sears catalog the year before. It was complete with an actual barn, with working barn doors, three or four sections of a split rail fence, a silo which was taller than the barn, and livestock. The animals in the set included a cow, horse, chicken, rooster and (I believe) a pig. It also came with a Fisher Price farmer, which was essentially a cylindrical figure with a large hole in the bottom, painted on farm clothes and a plastic straw hat bolted through his head. I’m sure there was a missus as well, but I never saw fit to have her involved in the farming operations.
It was a happy farm, on which all of the animals loved the farmer and were completely compliant with his directives. The rooster cockle doodle doo’ed night and day and seemed to serve at my pleasure.
My older brother, David, had since lost interest in farming, and before the snow melted that winter only touched it the one time. On this episode, I was camped out farming on the top of the stairs, near my parents’ bedroom. It should be mentioned that this farming operation was portable. All of the items could be loaded into the bifold barn and carried within its walls once the barn doors were clasped shut. Genius design by the Fisher Price people, an entire barnyard set complete with its own carrying case, and there was a handle on the roof of the barn.
So there I was working the land (which was the carpet outside my parents’ room) tilling something or planting something, when David walked by, upset by my joy and reverie. He asked if I wanted the silo closer to the operations. The silo was just outside the bathroom entrance and clearly too far away to be practical. I accepted his kind gesture and appreciated his concern. Before I was aware of what was happening, I saw the metallic bottom of the silo missile heading speedily, with very little wind resistance directly towards my face. I feebly put my hands up to block the colliding implement but heard the dull thud, followed by the clang of the metal hitting my head, followed, again, by my own screaming.
For the second time in my short life, I was covered in blood, which gushed forth from my forehead like the farmer was Jed Clampet and he just hit some bubbling crude with his rifle. David, aware that blood stained, wanted to avoid getting in further trouble by staining the carpet with his brother’s blood, jumped into action and unceremoniously dragged me to the tile floor of the bathroom. For his part, he was done with his first responder activity.
My mother (not unaccustomed to hearing me screaming in pain) rushed up the stairs to assess the situation. She was less adept at staunching the blood flow, and since my dad was at work, the responsibility rested on her shoulders. Seeing that the blood kept spurting out like a sprinkler in July, she quickly realized she was out of her element. Somehow, we got into the car and headed back to the doctor’s office.
It was too early for those punch card things rewarding a customer for their loyalty; they hadn’t been invented yet, but if they had, we would have had the second punch for sure. More stitches, a toy from the prize vault for being so brave. and we were on our way to our home, with only one minor diversion, to my father’s office. I believe it was more to express to my dad how difficult parenting two boys was than for him to inspect the work of the stitcher upper.
I don’t remember how much trouble David got in from this incident, or if he somehow found a way to make my parents believe that it was by my own negligence that the injury occurred. I suppose it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that one single event forever ended my interest in farming.