Incidents

These are personal accounts of experiences in my life, thus autobiographical in nature and rendered in first person.  It has been interesting, these trips around the sun…

The Accident

The Stampede

The River

The Accident

The first thing I felt was an incredibly, strong tug on my left arm. It almost felt as if my shoulder socket was going to come out from the sudden, pulling force that blindsided me. My head had been turned in the other direction, as I was stepping out, so I had no idea what was about to befall me; just this inexorable yanking of my arm, which pulled my body down and to the left. I was instantly frightened of a fall and bewildered as to what was happening to me, as it all went down in a second, literally.

The next sensation was the strangest, sound; a deep, crunching sound. This came as my knees hit the concrete floor with a thud; my eyes trained on the floor where I was falling. However, the sound affirmed my peripheral vision, which extended to my left arm and then commanded my focus. Just in time to see my left hand getting buried between two large, stainless, steel rollers. The next thing I felt was the hair on the back of my head rise, screaming to attention, as my voice also suddenly gave rise, unleashing a horrific, scream in recognition of what had just happened to me. The pain was soon to follow.

I was exhausted that day, but I had been alert as always around the churning parts of the machinery that rumbled all around me.  In fact, I was particularly upbeat and energized that morning, as I was finally training a new Screen-man to take the vacant shift. That meant that I would no longer have to work twelve hour shifts with the other Screen-man to cover our round-the-clock operation at the paper mill. It was bad enough that I had to work seven days a week, but twelve hours vs. eight was tough.

It was in the early eighties before the recovery and stagflation was still crippling the economy. I had moved to Reading, Pennsylvania with my wife and baby to be near her parents. To make the jump I signed on for a sales job in a hotel lobby without even knowing the product. It turned out to be vacuum cleaners. I had been suckered with empty promises for what amounted to a semi-pyramid scheme. Yes!  Sell expensive vacuum cleaners built like tanks and designed to last a thousand years to a small, population. What could go wrong?

I had learned a hard lesson, but that’s what young men do.  Problem was I had a family to support.  I hit the papers hard only to see the desolation of the times reflected in the want ads. There were some white-collar jobs, but manufacturing was dead.  I regretted that I had left college in my junior year, not being able to handle social work.  I should have just changed majors, but that was in the past and I had to find something that could pay the bills and quick!

After a couple, of desperate days of application blitzing and ad scrubbing, I saw a new, add for a worker at a paper mill. I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around the note in the ad that a seven-day work week was required; what happened to the weekends I wondered?  I dreaded the thought, but the listed pay looked good at eight bucks an hour with oodles of overtime and union benefits. I didn’t care how hard it was, I needed to feed my family.

So, I went down and talked to the man. Yes, it was full-time, all-time work.  However, they did close between Christmas and New Years for annual maintenance.  I took the job figuring it would hold us over until I could find something better.  In fact, I did keep up my search while at the mill, ever watchful for an opportunity to escape from that place.  I even paid to take a correspondence course in electronics repair; a relatively new type of job with great, growth potential; computers were coming!  My kit arrived the week following my accident and to their credit, after hearing my story, they reimbursed my tuition after the kit was returned.

The mill was the hardest, work I ever did. The mill was the oldest, pulp-producing paper mill in the country. It was comprised of a long, concrete building with connected machinery running its length. There were huge vats at one end where the pulp was produced like porridge in a giant, Kitchen aid appliance. Then came the beltways carrying the congealing mass through a network of Dryers (big rotating drums exuding steam and underneath which, was the God-awful pit). Finally. came the dry end with the Calendar Stacks and the extractor that yielded sheets or rolls as the final product.

I was a Screen man, which was bottom of the totem pole, of course. My job was to scrape screens that acted as conveyors for the porridge as they left the vats. The screens were high up and there were catwalks for working them.  This entailed keeping the sludge moving where it started to pile, using a coal shovel to push it along.  I also was an assistant to the Machine Tender and aided in the dry end of production with the finished product.  The worst part though, were the “breaks!”

Every now and then, the line of hardening paper would detach itself while winding around the dryers. When it did, the line would fall into a concrete slot in the floor under the dryers, about four feet in depth and width.  When anyone yelled, “Break!”, my job was to jump into the “pit” and position myself where the steaming cardboard poured down from the dryers above me.  From there I would tear a tail in the paper and feed it up to other workers who would grab it and keep threading it around the dryers in succession, coming back to me as we went, until we got it wound all the way back through to the extractor.

It was very, hot in the pit and impossible to see with my glasses on, so I always took them off. And you had to be wary of the steam ducts that ran along one side of the pit, because they burned bare skin. All the while you are crouched low to avoid the dryers rumbling overhead and stumbling over piles of steaming, wet cardboard bogs. Once the line was running again, I would have to get the cardboard out of the pit, lifting it out of the slot by pushing/smushing it between the steel stanchions of the dryers onto the floor. The last step was to lift the wet, cardboard piles into 4×8 bins that we would roll back to the vats for reinsertion. They made us stomp down each load to keep getting more in the bins to where you could no longer lift your legs any longer; at which point I would just throw my body down, getting up repeatedly, just to compact the cardboard before pushing it to the wet end.

The work was so hard they had stocked, salt tablet stations that were replenished often. I was popping at least one an hour to make up for my fluid loss and drank a lot from the fountain. It was also very, hot in the mill, especially in certain places, which added to the hydration strain. They used to leave some windows open in winter and the openings would freeze the steam into ice a foot thick where the hole used to be. So, the work was dangerous, hot and exhausting. And at this point, I was working 12 hours a day, seven days a week. I had never been so exhausted in my whole life, but I endured it for my family; praying for my kit to come from electronics school, so there could be a be a beginning to the end of this madness.

Saturday, January the twenty-sixth, was one of those days that made you not mind winter so much after all. The sky was the kind of blue and the air a the kind of fresh you only get on a beautiful, cold day.  I was starting shift at 7 am that day, the most favorable one in the winter rotation of our swing shift operation. Additionally, I was most upbeat that day, because it was the first day of training for a new Screen-man and I was finally going back to my eight-hour shift once I trained him. Altogether, I was much happier that day showing up for work than I had been in a while. It was a good day!

The new guy was laid back, but he seemed capable, and things started off good.  I was encouraged he could pick things up quick and take over his shift right away.  In the late morning we had to do a changeover from stacked paper to rolls of paper on the dry end, so the new guy and I assisted with the conversion and he did his part okay. After the conversion was done, we had to remove the cardboard that had accumulated on a roller that acted as a take-up reel, while the line had continued during the changeover.

This roller was between the Calendar Stacks and the Extractor, together comprising the back end of the process, with not much room between them.  We would use these big, hooks with handles to “rip” the cardboard off the roller, several sheets at a time. The cardboard would fall to the floor, sometimes in lengths of eight feet or more, depending on the amount that had accumulated and would extend under the preceding machine, the Calendar Stack.  Therefore, to remove the stack of paper after you cut it off the roller, you had to go to the other side of the Calendar Stack and fold the end of the paper back under the machine between its legs until it squared with the other end, essentially to half its length.  This you did while stooping over in a small space with another Calendar Stack just behind you and the paper whirring by just overhead running between them. Then you would pull the paper out by the fold while stepping out sideways from between the two stacks.

The Calendar Stack was a machine designed to compress paper to its desired thickness and squeeze out the last, remaining moisture.  It was essentially two, vertical, steel girders that had a number of stainless-steel rollers spindled between them. The rollers were about four feet wide and varied in diameter, typically spinning at about six feet a second. So, the paper rotated fast on the rollers as it bobbed and weaved between to them and from one stack to the next on the way to the extractor. It was a very, imposing piece of machinery and I remember one day the machine tender warning me of it, “Be so careful!” he exclaimed. “If a hand went in there it would just smash it! Smash it!” The rollers spun so fast.

So, I was having a good day and was energized as I was pulling out the excess cardboard, now cut from the take-up roller, from beneath and between the two Calendar Stacks.  The new guy was working with me, and we took turns pulling a load of several sheets at a time from the pile and throwing them in a bin off to the side in the aisle.  It had been a good start and I do not think we even had a break yet that morning.  I could see the light at the end of my twelve-hour shift, work tunnel.

It was getting close to lunchtime as I stepped between the stacks for another load of scrap paper as the pile dwindled.   I folded the ends over as usual and got a good grip on the fold, so I could pull the load out securely.   I rose from a crouch to a stoop with the paper in my hands and looked to the right where I was stepping, as the footing was precarious between the machines.  As I took my second sidestep, marking my footsteps, I felt my arm get that sudden pull, almost popping my shoulder and pulling me down and back toward the Calendar Stack.

In my bewilderment, I could not have realized that as the curled ends of the paper had reached the bottom roller, they got kicked up and had caught in the nip point between that roller and the one above it.  The paper pulled so hard and suddenly from the force and my grip was so strong, it yanked my left hand with it between the rollers.  The force freed my right hand though, as the paper was being pulled way from that hand.  Still, I landed on my knees with a thud and realized the Calendar Stack was eating my right hand!

I screamed as I heard the crunching of the paper and my fingers and then the huge machine gagged with great force as the rollers were jammed shut by my hand.  The machine was bucking under the power of a steam engine to keep rolling, but I had stopped its motion.  Men came running when I screamed and the plant manager appeared quickly, beside me.  He went to the gear box and disconnected the Stack from the central dive shaft of the steam engine, killing its power.  The machine stopped bucking and my hand was embedded between the rollers to the base of the fingers.

I was on my knees, grasping my left wrist with my right hand, wishing I could just pull my hand out.  Strangely, I felt my mind clear and became focused on getting me out.  I could not fully, fathom what had just happened to me, because it was still happening, and I wanted to end.  The boss kept working off to the side and after a minute or two, the rollers started to roll backward as he manually turned them.  I saw my fingers start to withdraw and felt both horror and relief, an extreme paradox.  I was thrilled to see my hand coming out, but aghast at what I saw.  The fingers were flat and wide; just like in the cartoons, perhaps double in width.

Still, they were coming out.  Damage done.  Let’s just move on and get this over with.  Then suddenly the rollers stopped turning and my fingertips were still embedded in the rollers.  I turned my head real quick and yelled, “Don’t stop!  They’re almost out!”  However, I’ll never forget the look on the boss’s face as he arose from the side of the stack and faced me; such an expression of sadness and regret, as he said in hopelessness, “There’s a back clutch.  I cannot roll it back any further.”

If I thought I was down before, now I was absolutely, bereft.  I could feel the tears start to stream down my face as my delicate, relief turned to beaten down, despair.  Then I got mad and decided I was just going to pull my hand out, whatever it took.  I tried pulling it with my right hand and at first it looked like it was starting to come out, but then I realized it was just my my fingers stretching.  I stopped pulling as I got a sick feeling it the pit of my stomach and then with great, sorrow, I slowly bowed my head and softly, cried, “Jesus, help me.”

And He did.  As if by command, the resident, old-timer at the mill sprang into action.  I could actually feel him as he said to himself, “Enough of this!”  He grabbed a big, long, metal bar used as a lever to adjust machinery and jammed it between the spindles of the two rollers I was caught between.  Then he jumped up on it with his torso and threw his weight down on it trying to wedge the rollers up above my hand.  Some of the other guys joined him, throwing all their weight on the bar and coordinating pushes to lever the rollers.

As they did this, I became hopeful and went back to trying to pull my hand out.  They must have relieved just enough pressure from the stack of rollers above, as I was finally able to pull hand out.  However, there was no longer any tissue covering most of my fingers; in medical terms I had been “de-gloved.”  I actually marveled for a moment while looking at my skeletal fingers, with Mylar-like sheathing covering the bone.  And I could still flex my fingers!

The guys then wrapped my hand with some clean rags and led me to the loading dock, telling me to keep pressure on my hand.  They sat me down on a skid of cardboard sheets and told me the ambulance was on the way and would be here shortly.  Then they all left, and I was sitting alone on the dock.  I noticed how the white, cloth was quickly turning red as it saturated with my blood.  Then it came, the pain!

I had been in shock and up to this point and although I was emotionally traumatized, I had not felt any physical pain.  Now, however, I was about to experience pain like I did not know was possible.  I remember once when I told this tale sometime later, a listener said, “I cannot even imagine what that must have felt like?”  I told him that he could; indeed, just bite down on one of his fingers until they couldn’t take it anymore and multiple that many times, and on multiple fingers.  The pain was mid-boggling, and I threw up while waiting as my makeshift, bandage began dripping.

Finally, the ambulance appeared, and I was never so happy to see one.  They quickly got me in and started off.  I begged them for something to alleviate the pain, it was becoming unbearable.  However, the EMT said he could not, because I had lost so much blood and I could go into cardiac arrest.  For that reason, they had already started to give me plasma.  I must have looked like a ghost.  All I could think then was let’s just get to the hospital.  But wouldn’t you know, it was the lunch hour and we had to drive down main street to get to the hospital and we got stuck in traffic with nowhere for cars to pull over to let us pass.  We had to crawl on our way there and I felt like I was in a nightmare; it hurt so bad!

We got to the hospital, and they were waiting for me.  As they cut off my clothes and began prepping me for emergency surgery.  One of the nurses was hitting me up for insurance information when I looked to the ceiling and screamed, “Will somebody please give me something for the pain!”  I couldn’t take it anymore!  A nurse suddenly appeared with a syringe and stuck me in the left arm.

I could not believe how suddenly the pain subsided!  I had just been introduced to Demerol, which was going to be a good, friend of mine for a while.   For the first time since I went to pull out that last stack of cardboard, I was finally able to exhale.   I remember I had told the horrified, new guy as I was leaving, “When this is over, I am going to take one heck of a vacation!”  I understand he never showed up the next day to work, he had seen enough and was done.  But I had survived the ordeal and now I just wanted to get it fixed and move on.  Before operating, the surgeon came to see me and I told him, “I am young and strong doctor, please save what you can.”  He said he would, and they put me out.

The first sensation I remember as I was coming to, was warmth on both my hands.  I was extremely groggy, as I opened my eyes and it all came back to me.  I recognized the warmth was on both hands and looked in horror to see both of them with huge club-like bandages, almost to the elbows.   I let out a scream thinking both hands had been crushed.  A nurse came running in as she heard me crying, I had lost both my hands!  She urgently, consoled me saying my right hand would be okay; it had just been burned some in the ordeal and needed attention too.  She told me she would get me something for the pain and that the doctor would be in to see me in the morning.

She left and I noted I had a semi-private room to myself.  I looked at both of my bandaged hands, almost not believing what had happened to me.  Then I started to cry, thinking how mad God must have been to let this happen to me.  I was not crying for pain or fear or anger’s sake; no, I was crying because I felt I must have done something terrible to offend God and was ashamed of myself.  That’s when He came to me and reminded me about our talk in the rafters.  I then remembered his warning and realized this was the accident He had been talking about.  My tears continued but were now for love of Him and how close we were.  He told me I had a long, road ahead that would bring much change, but He would be with me always and the journey would bring us even closer.

In the several years that followed, the ramifications from the accident continued to cause pain and provide challenges; I was by no means out of the woods.  Since the doctor was trying to take as little of my fingers off as possible in the cleanup surgery following the accident, I developed a bone infection (Osteo Miletus) in my fingers.  So, every month or so they had to cut away more of the bone from the tips until the infection was arrested and they could close the skin.  In the end, I was left with a twisted, but in-tact pinky, I had lost the tip of my thumb and all of the ring finger, and my middle and index fingers had been reduced to stumps, ending at the first knuckle.

My right hand received third degree burns resting on the bottom roller while holding my left arm during the ordeal.  That injury alone accounted for a number of operations to graft skin to the burn sight and afterward I had to wear a Jobst pressure glove for over a year to mitigate the scarring.  My left hand was implanted in my side surgically and later cut out with the thigh skin to which it had adhered.  This left me with bulbous, stumps that had no sensation, as they were no nerves to feel with and it also left a big, indentation in my thigh from the donor site.

I was also diagnosed with Post Traumatic Shock Disorder (PTSD) by a psychologist and underwent counseling to help with anxiety and recurring nightmares.  There were more than twenty separate operations during the three and a half years I was on disability.  It also took a longtime for the pain to become tolerable.  There were all kinds of things that had to be done and obstacles overcome on the road to recovery.  There were times I wish I could die, because it was so hard and hurt so bad.   However, God always consoled me and helped me to move forward.

Eventually, I was tested by the Pennsylvania Office of Rehabilitation and advised to go back to college.  I was accepted at a local college and granted 60 credits for my earlier college coursework.  It was hard going back to school while still undergoing operations and physical therapy.  I even remember one time I was rushing to class after a doctor’s appointment.  I was wearing overalls, because the donor site on my side from where they grew skin to my hand was sore and healing.  As I passed a couple of younger, guys in the hall talking, one pointed at me as I passed and exclaimed to his friend, “See, look at that guy.  They’ll let any dumb, hick into this college.”

I know it was not personal and he had no idea what had happened to me or why I was dressed like that, but I wound up in the bathroom trying to compose myself with my eyes welling.  I felt so icky and was trying not to be down.  I even had to leave class one time, because I realized the drainage from an infection was creating an odor that had people looking around for the source.  I was so embarrassed!  However, I was trying hard to rebuild myself so I could go back to providing for my family.  It would have been easy to garner sympathy and rest on the welfare state, but that’s not the life I wanted.  I wanted to be a survivor, not a victim.  I held on to precious words I remembered hearing once from Colonel Potter in a M*A*S*H, TV episode, “A man’s not a fool, because he was the victim of an accident, but he is a fool if he let’s that accident destroy the rest of his life.”

Still, as bad as the accident itself was, I could never have imagined the additional pains the incident would cause, including financial hardship (think breadlines), recurring nightmares and night sweats, sexual dysfunction, depression, self-esteem issues and marital problems.  It all came to a head one night when I was home convalescing from a recent surgery.  I was on my recliner in the evening and had a little pep talk with myself.  I had decided that the worst was over and that I was not only going to get well, but I was also going to get better; better than I had ever been before.  I felt suddenly upbeat and wanted to share my new, found encouragement with my wife.  I arose with some difficulty and waddled into the kitchen, semi-hunched over from my operation.  She was in there with lights off, smoking a cigarette and staring out the window.  She seemed odd, but I wanted to tell her how I felt.

As I approached, before I could say anything, she turned suddenly and glared at me with a look of great, disdain and said, “I can’t believe this!  It’s like being stuck with an old man!”  I felt my heart and my spirit get crushed in one shot.  Either my wife was not being fair, or she was correct, and I was no good, just a half-man.  Either way, it was bad and something in me broke at that moment, and I went quietly back to my recliner and sat there numb.  Was this accident ever going to stop hurting me and the people I love?

Again, as bad a the accident was, so many other hard things happened as a result.  However, good things happened too.  I became a better and more compassionate person; to quote Doctor Albert Schweitzer, I became a member of what he termed, “The Brotherhood of Those Who Bear the Mark of Pain.”  I went back to school and received an accounting degree, graduating Magna Cum Laude.   That led to a career at AT&T and a life filled with love, family and friends.  I held on to my faith and in many ways, and time and again, God stepped up and delivered.  He had warned me and then rode shotgun with me the whole way through.

I do realize also that there are those who have suffered much worse than me.  What happened to sucked, but it was just a freak accident.  There are people suffering from abuse and cruelty, which is much more damaging to the psyche.  Even soldiers traumatized in war have it much harder than I did.  But regardless of the cause of great tragedy, all of us face the same choice afterward, what will we do with it?  The best advice I can give I learned from my philosophy teacher after I went back to college.  Sister Jacinta was a death camp survivor and a wise, old lady.  One day in class she said, “Great tragedy either makes us bitter or beautiful.  I’ve seen it both ways and suggest the latter.”

So, if you are going through a rough patch, personal trauma or great tragedy, please know that you are not alone.  God is there and may even be trying to get through to you.  C.S. Lewis said that God “whispers” to us in our pleasures, He “speaks” to us in our conscience and He “yells” at us in our pain- “it’s His megaphone to rally a deaf world!”  The body feels pain to warn us of danger, but often there are also mental and spiritual dangers that we need to be wary of during those hard times.  We should work on healing those things as well as our bodies.  It is true that stressors that don’t kill you will make you stronger, but only if you grow and learn in the process.

I have been blessed to be close to God since I was young, but my “accident” brought us closer together, made me a stronger man and led to a good life.  I trusted Him and followed as best as I could His plan for me.  It certainly was not easy, but it was doable and little victories along the way helped a lot.  Just like the tenth anniversary of the accident, in 1995, when I finally felt like I had put it all behind me and could now celebrate my overcoming the challenge, versus depressing over the inevitable recollections the date brought about.  On that day I wrote one of my favorite poems, and by the Grace of God declared myself healed and victorious!  He will bring you to victory too, if you just call on Him and His Mercy.

January Twenty Six

The Stampede

The funny thing was, I was just starting to believe in myself as a farmer. This New York City boy and Yankee die-hard had finally acclimated to the North Carolina Blue Ridge, and I was now as comfortable dancing around cow chips in the field as I had with trash in the gutter. However, I did still marvel on those crystalline, early mornings at my surroundings, always in awe of those ancient, rolling mountains.

I had transferred to Warren Wilson College, outside of Asheville, nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Swannanoa. It was a beautiful school and had a number of unique programs.  One of them was the work program.  Students were assigned to work groups that supported all vital services for the college and worked fifteen hours a week in those jobs in lieu of paying room and board.  Everything from the cafeteria to the boiler room to the farm was run by the student body under staff leadership.

It was a fascinating arrangement.  The monies that would have been paid for services was used to pay student living expenses and the kids did all the work to maintain the school instead of contractors.  I knew students who wound up getting certified as plumbers and electricians instead of working in their majors after graduation.  Heck, the kids even built their own Chapel, and it turned out beautiful!   The work program gave valuable experience, taught lessons about work life and instilled pride in many of the students.  After all, who’s going to clean the johnny better than the one who has to sit on it every day?

Like most new students I began in the cafeteria.  There was a paid cook and manager, but the students did all the labor.  I had some good times in the dish hall; suds, song and laughter abounded amidst slop and dirty utensils.  After that soggy, semester I transferred to the library staff.  Those were coveted jobs due to the built in study time the jobs afforded, talk about work/study!  From there I landed the next semester in a janitorial role; another plumb assignment!  Really.  I provided maintenance for the science building and every day, I cleaned the restrooms, dumped the trash and wiped down the chalk boards.   I also had the keys and unfettered access to the computer lab and other equipment.  Computers were new!

I was a good worker and had been able to roll into good work crews and enjoyed that part of my college life more than my studies.  Then one day in the late afternoon as I was walking with a friend down to the student center (Gladfelter), I heard singing in the distance.   I asked my friend what I was hearing as the sound grew.  He said it was just the farmers.  Farmers?  Farmers!  I was fascinated!

They came around the bend on the back of an old, Chevy pickup truck, about a dozen crammed in the back.  They were singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” at the top of their lungs.  They all seemed to glow with happiness and were rocking in the back so much the truck was rocking with them.  They pulled up to Gladfelter and jumped off, covered with dirt and crap, but filled with this wondrous spirit.  I wanted me some of that!  I loved the singing, but more than that I loved their spirit!

Turns out the farm boss, Mr. Larson, was also the assistant basketball coach, who I already worked for as the team’s manager and trainer.  I wrapped the ankles, wiped the floor, washed the uniforms and kept score.  Larson was happy to sign me up for his farm crew when he heard of my interest.  He was a stern man who spoke very, little and had a wry sense of humor.  He had been born on that farm, as his parents ran it back in the day when the college was a farm school for boys.  He grew up there and was very, invested in the farm.  He was also a no-nonsense, ex-marine who fought in WWII and had a career as a Marine Corp Drill Instructor on Paris Island.   You didn’t mess with this guy; he had seen it all.

So, it was with some trepidation I began my farming career.  Mr. Larson had cautioned me on two things.  He told me the work was going to be very, hard, physical work and he also told me he would expect more out of me than others, due to our basketball partnership and my work ethic.  Still, I was undaunted and made the move.  And as you may have expected, it didn’t start really smooth.  I had much to learn!  Take the difference between hay and straw for an example.

Yes, I worked hard one morning, managing the feed crew.  We loaded up the pickup with bails, we drove out to the field, we cut the ties on those bails and ever so carefully “fluffed” the stuff as we tossed it off the back of the truck, while it rolled along over hill and dale.   Mr. Larson appreciated our efforts, he just wished I had spread hay instead of straw.  Apparently, as he explained, one was food and the other bedding.  I had learned one was also coarser, and the other was greener.  Naturally, I went back out with the hay, and I could almost swear he thought about making me pick up the straw, but I was spared.

There was also the time he told me to tear down the fence.   There were three layers of wire fencing, some of it embedded in trees that had overgrown the fence.  Some of it was also barbed.  It was a tedious, exhausting and prickly affair, but me and my partner worked like maniacs tearing that fence down.  Ultimately, Mr. Larson was not sure which he had a harder time believing; how much fence we were able to take down in a relatively short time or the fact we took down the wrong fence.  Yes, I had some growing pains on the farm, but I loved it so!

I eventually settled in and did well enough that I was assigned my own herd for weight-training, sans the straw.  I also drove the silage truck, put up fencing, cleaned the pig pens, tamped silage in the silos and even helped slaughter a pig.  Though, I did not like working in the slaughtering house and generally avoided that end of the business.  I preferred to grow and nurture things.  As a result, I became a good farmer, and I earned Mr. Larson’s respect.

One beautiful, spring morning, we needed to herd some cows from one field to another.  We rotated fields as they finished off the grazing in one and brought them to another with fresh, growth.   The farm team would walk the perimeter as we herded the cows down the road from one field to the other, with the truck trailing in the rear.   The road was really for college use and was not traveled much as a thoroughfare.   So, moving the herd was usually quiet and uneventful.  Except for this one time…

On this day, things started off smoothly and were good until about half-way to the new field.  We were moving along fine as we passed a road cutting in from the right, forming a T intersection.  We were going straight and I was in the middle of that intersection in the mouth of the right turn when it happened.  A red, sports car with the top down came flying around the bend from the opposite direction, barreling toward us.  When he saw the herd in front of him, he slammed on his breaks and laid on the horn.

Fortunately, he was able to stop in time, however, the screeching tires and the blaring horn freaked out the herd and started a stampede.  With the scary car in front and the farm truck behind, the spooked heifers spilled into the open intersection, darting for that right hand turn away from the vehicles and the corn field on the left side; right toward me in the middle of that opening.

I had been distracted like everyone else by Speed Racer and was digesting what was happening when the first cow clipped me. The one right next to me stomped my foot hard as she planted to turn and run. Then she almost knocked me over as she did so. Yet, as soon as I steadied myself, my other foot got clipped and I was pushed hard by another cow that slammed my hip. In that instant I glanced up to see the eyes of every cow in the herd, wide-eyed and glaring in my direction as they all turned toward me and bolted.

I could not believe what I was seeing!  That is until the next cow smashed into me, and I realized this was not going to stop. Then I felt panic rise in me as my mind raced with what to do.  I could not just stand there, I would be knocked down at some point and then trampled. There was no way I could go toward them or to either side, as I was being passed on both sides.  As more raced toward me, I had only one chance; I turned and ran with them.

Now, this seemed a good idea in the moment, because really, what else was I going to do? And even now, all these years later, I can still recall with clarity how my mind grappled with this event as it unfolded. It truly happened quickly in real time, but it seemed to play out in slow-motion in my head as it went. Once I had turned and started to run I realized I was no longer getting dinged; primary goal accomplished, but now what?  I had a handful of cows in front of me, several on either side and the bulk of the herd pulling up my rear.  For the moment I was content to run and I hoped the cows would just calm and slow down.

However, in studying the cows alongside me, I could tell not only were they still spooked from the car (it had only been some seconds), but the fact I was running with them was adding to their distress; I could see it in their eyes. They were not going to stop anytime soon as I was exacerbating the situation.  I thought about trying to veer at an angle off to the side of the road to get out of the herd’s flow, but the cows were too tightly packed and staggered; I risked tripping and then being gone. Yet, I could not run forever, I was no athlete.

So, I decided to try and outrace the herd to where I could get in front and then run off to the side into the corn.  Now, mind you, I was in overalls and a was wearing a big, pair of shit-kickers.  I was not equipped for speed, nor was I in good shape, so this was no small task for me to take on.  Still, I turned on the afterburners and ran for my life- literally!  I started moving ahead in the mass of hooves and snorts, but noticed they were running a little harder too.  I ran as hard as I ever had in my life and made it up to the two lead cows, one on either side.  All I could think was just pass one of these and I can make for the side!

I felt my heart pounding in my chest like it was going to explode, but I exerted one last burst of energy to get in front of the last cows.  However, I could not do it; the best I could manage was neck and neck. They were too wide-eyed and scared, sensing my own panic, no doubt.  In fact, the one on my left was starting to pull ahead again, while I could barely keep up with the one on my right.  And the rest of the herd thundered, ominously behind me.  At this moment, I felt a tinge of sadness come over me. I could not believe this was happening and that it was going to end this way.  Unfreaking believable!

I knew I could not run any longer, the adrenaline was wearing out and I was exhausted.  Then I suddenly became angry!  My melancholy instantly flipped to rage. “This was f*in’ bullshit!”  I decided I was not going to just lie down.  I could not run anymore, but I could make a stand!  As I was running and the cow on my left was pulling ahead, I hit the cow on my right.  As my right, arm was pumping up, I swung it around with all my might and brought the bottom of my fist down hard, square on the cow’s nose.  I popped him a good one in stride and as I did, I swung my body around and planted myself to face the oncoming herd; letting out a vicious, scream at the top of my lungs, while pounding my chest like King Kong!

I remember no longer being afraid, I was mad as hell!  If they were going to run me over, so be it, but I was not going to go “gentle into that good night.”  As if they couldn’t get any larger, those big cow, moon eyes almost exploded when I did this maneuver.  I could see they were wondering, “What kind of new hell was this?”  The cows in front slammed on their breaks to where they skidded and the cows in back slammed into them, like an accordion slamming shut.  The herd coalesced as I rampaged in front of them, storming to and fro in the road, welling and screaming.

As the rest of the farm crew caught up to the herd and began to round them up, I stood there numb, in the middle of the road, with my heart pounding, trying to fathom what had just happened to me.  And as I stood there gasping for air and trying to collect myself, Mr. Larson came walking up to me very casually and stuck his face in mine, DI-style, and regarded me just for a moment. Then this old, marine simply said, “That was the damnedest thing I ever saw.” And he walked away.

We managed to get the herd organized and got them to the new field without any further trouble. Yet, for the rest of the day, I both grappled with how close I had come to certain death, but also in wonder of how it all went down and how I got out of it. There was no doubt that God was with me, instructing me what to do, as it all happened so fast, and also giving me the power of persona necessary to will the stampede to stop.  Though, it would have been strangely comical I think, had I turned to challenge the herd as I did and then got summarily flattened under their hooves. Thank God that did not happen!

The day finished unceremoniously in class that afternoon, though I could not stop thinking about the stampede and what had happened to me.  Later that evening, I went down to Gladfelter to meet my friends for dinner.  When I walked into the cafeteria, someone shouted, and all eyes turned toward me. Suddenly, everyone rose and started chanting, “Jungle Bob! Jungle Bob! Jungle Bob!” over and over again. There was fist-pumping and whistling!  Apparently, word had spread of my exploits and at least for a short, time I was a celebrity of sorts.

I dropped out of college the following semester, as I felt unable to continue with Social Work, my major. But the following year when I stopped by the campus for a visit, I found out that I had not been totally forgotten.  When partying with some old, friends and a couple of freshman girls, we were rehashing old times when one of the girls suddenly pointed a finger in my direction and exclaimed, “Wait!  I know who you are!  You’re Jungle Bob!”

The room lit up with howls, as I realized I now lived on in song and story.  We all had a good laugh over something that could have just as easily been a horrific, tragedy.  And while I can remember it like it happened just yesterday despite being forty years behind me, how I wish video technology was as prevalent then as it is now.  It would have made for one, incredible show!

The River

Have you ever capsized in the rapid shallows of a river? The first instinct is to stabilize yourself, gather your stuff (cushions, oars, canoe, etc.) and make your way to the banks to regroup. However, this cannot be done…even in just a couple of feet of water. When you try to set your feet on the riverbed two things become apparent; the footing is precarious due to the uneven, rocky surface and the river has no intention of letting you stay in one place.

This happened to me, and I remember skittering along, with one hand on my over turned canoe, another grasping my oar and trying to set my feet for a push sideways toward the bank. Ouch! With every attempt my ankle was turned and whacked by rocks as I bobbed and bounced trying to remain upright. Additionally, the larger boulders would sneak up on me as I was pulled inexorably downstream. I saw myself heading toward a big rock, released the canoe and tried to maneuver around the boulder by resisting the flow. Let me tell you the current is irresistible. In my attempt to avoid the boulder I slammed right into it. Ouch! Now I was hurt and exhausted. I could not help myself, I could not go on, and yet the river had me in its surprisingly, mighty grasp.

At that point, I surrendered. I surrendered my will. I surrendered to the river. I glided along with my body limp (no resistance left in me) and saw another big boulder sticking out of the rapids as I zipped along headfirst in its direction. I figured this was the part where I was about to have my head cracked open and was tempted to fight again, but that didn’t work last time. I stayed limp as the boulder drew ominously near and prayed to God for mercy. And then an amazing thing happened. I remained limp on the approach to impact and just as my head was about to smack the rock, the water suddenly whisked me to the right and around the boulder safely. I felt my body and legs pull in a gentle arc around the boulder as the water swept me along past the boulder. I marveled at how the water was helping me, guiding me, leading me downstream. Each time an obstacle presented itself, the water circumvented the barrier and took me with it; all as I floated along, “resting”, with my body limp offering no resistance.

Shortly thereafter, I had cleared the shallow rapids and emerged in deeper, slower water where the river widened. I turned and saw my “stuff” dutifully coming up behind me along the same tract. Now, I was able to swim and maneuver in the water, gathering my things into the righted, but water filled canoe and pulled everything over to the banks. I regrouped (even reunited with my soggy wife) and was able to set out again. However, I had learned an important lesson about rivers and the deceptive power of a seemingly small amount of water. Although, it was lost on me at the time, I had also learned something about the nature of God’s will.

I realize now that God’s will is like a river. As a river flows on seeking its own level, purposefully toward its home destination, the sea; so, does God’s will flow inexorably on seeking its resolution in His purpose. Both a river and God’s will are purposeful, driven, powerful, and ultimately, successful; the river will reach its destination (which is also its original source, “returning home” as it were) and God’s Will will accomplish His plan.

There is a lesson in this for living. When we live for ourselves, putting our will first, it’s like trying to resist the river. What we want may seem attainable and like the best thing to pursue, but if it’s not in accord with God’s we will meet resistance with little success and ravage ourselves in the process. Even if we succeed, any pleasure or benefit will not last.

Some of us may be satisfied to just struggle to the banks of life where we will try to content ourselves with whatever we have found there. However, temporal things are fleeting in nature and effect. One can only stay on the banks for so long before they stagnate like the water that’s pooled along its edges. One can see these little pools, out of the mainstream, where the water kind of circles around going nowhere and is filled with silt and decayed leaves. Eventually, by staying we will become rotten like the water there, lacking the freshness and vigor of the moving flow. And as we are decaying, we also realize that we have lost the benefits we thought we had derived on the bank; they either disappear or lose their value. Eventually, we must rot there or move on. Even at this point of realization, many will stay simply because of the enormous effort it took to get there, twisting ankles, scraping shins and banging knees along the way. Others may want desperately to move on, but fear having to challenge the river again. This is the fate of the selfish, fearful and complacent. They have pulled themselves out of the will of God and are languishing in the mundane aspect of the world, without hope of ever being fulfilled and always wondering what may have been around the next bend.

Worse still is the fate of those who decide to fight their way back upstream; the arrogant, the rebellious, the self-righteous. These people are not just seeking their own will; they are in direct opposition to God’s. As they fight their way along, they are bloodied, bruised and eventually broken. For a time, the exhilaration may drive them on, but eventually they will wear down. They are heading away from the true source of their origin and strength. It’s a journey that has no end, not so much because it’s unattainable, but rather, because there is none. One of three things will happen to those fighting against river of God’s will; they will die trying, unfulfilled and unhappy, they will eventually work their way to the banks seeking a refuge that becomes stagnation, or they will surrender and allow the river to guide them back where they needed to go and were intended to be all along.

Now, following the will of God does require surrender (dying to oneself…subjugating your will to His…seeking His Glory, rather than worldly pleasure), but it also requires faith and patience along the way. Following God’s plan does not mean there will not be obstacles; however, He will guide you past or through them all. Sometimes, the situation may seem hopeless and the obstacles insurmountable, but that’s when God reminds us of us His awesome power. He is magnified in our weaknesses and glorified by our salvation! Just like the way He gently guided my head around the boulder when I rested my faith in Him, He will guide you through every difficulty as you follow Him. He may glide you around the boulder, make it disappear or enable you to go right through it. He who created the laws of the universe, will bend those laws to His purpose as He sees fit. All we have to do is surrender and trust in Him. He wants us Home.