—Park Rapids, Minnesota, 1951
It was my mistake—my fault—I should never have told Sam that his dashboard clock was wrong! He was resetting it with both hands when we went off the road at about 50 miles an hour. We bounced along in the ditch at a crazy angle.
Sam landed on my lap then on the next bounce he grabbed for the steering wheel, pulled himself over and gave it a big twist to get back on the highway. Sod and gravel sprayed over the hood as the front bumper tore into the steep side of the ditch. We careened back into the ditch before finally coming to a stop.
We were stuck. And we had destroyed a section of barbed wire fence. Now a herd of dairy cows was moving toward the gap in the fence, ready for a chance to escape. At least they were thinking about it.
I was 10 years old and my friend Sam was probably 75. In his little cabin on the west end of Lake Belletaine, Sam usually had soda pop and store-bought cookies to entertain anyone who came to visit. I can’t remember what we talked about on my visits, but I think he was always happy to have company, even a ten year old boy. We had become friends because of my sweet tooth and his loneliness.
I knew that Sam was not much bigger than an elf, but back then I hadn’t noticed how much he looked like Santa Claus. He had a red face and thick snow white hair. His thick glasses made his eyes look huge. Red suspenders held up his pants because a belt just wouldn’t work and when he laughed his round belly shook like—well, like a bowl full of jelly.
Although everybody in the neighborhood knew that he was legally blind, Sam was a travelling salesman. We understood that the Blue Jay corn brooms he sold to stores were made by the Society for the Blind. He drove his territory in a brand new 1951 Packard sedan.
One summer morning Sam asked me if I wanted to ride into Park Rapids, seven miles to the west. What kid isn’t always up for a trip to town? When I ran home to get permission, nobody was there. That was a yes! A definite yes! But now Sam and I were stuck in the ditch. And there was a whole herd of cows ready to venture out onto Highway 34.
I know I shouldn’t have reminded Sam that his clock was wrong, but my big lesson for the day was still ahead of me.
On a hill about a half mile away, we saw a farmer on a tractor. My mission? A cross-country run across a hilly pasture. But when I reached the field, the tractor was driving away faster than I could run. A farm boy might have waited for the tractor to turn and come back, but I was a lake boy, and I had to follow that farmer and get his attention. After all, his cows were going to escape!
But then a farm boy would have known about manure spreaders and would have known better than to try to chase one down on foot. But I was a lake boy, now involved in a messy business. Even if I avoided the airborne product, the footing was slippery and unpleasant. I finally got the farmer’s attention and I suppose he was surprised and quite amused by the sight of me.
After I breathlessly described the problem he said, “That’s not my pasture. Those ain’t my cows,” and he went on spreading manure. By the time I hiked back to highway, a passerby had notified the dairy herd’s actual owner and Sam was waiting for someone to pull his car back on the road.
My Mom drove up just then, a little shocked by the sight of me. She brought me home for a bath and a change of clothes, a smarter and cleaner boy for the experience.
I wonder if life was trying to teach me a more important lesson. Isn’t it true that we need to wade through a lot of manure in order to discover the truth and the meaning of life?
THE NEXT STEP— How to start over again…..when life gives you a second chance.
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