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My wife inherited the hundred acres in the Piney Woods of east Texas from her husband, who died at a young age from a heart attack. We had been married a few years and were in our early thirties when we decided to put the land to use by starting a Christmas tree farm. That may sound like a strange decision for a nurse and medical technologist, who may have been born on farms, but hadn't lived on one since they were kids. And it was. A strange decision, I mean. I'm the one who talked my wife into it. I never did have much common sense.
I don't have much mechanical talent, either. No, that's not right. I have no talent for machinery at all, as anyone who's read my books about farm life already knows. Nevertheless, I jumped into farming and carried Hannah along with me, willy nilly. I made a hash of it for years before deciding I'd be much happier and the tractors and trucks and sprayers and mowers and all those other things containing moving parts would be happier, too, if I just wrote about farming instead of actually doing it any more, but something happened before I could quit and go look for a real job.
Before I retired those blasted tractors, which I swear were sentient and spent the nights conniving with each other about what kind of trouble they would get me into and how much blood they could make me shed the next day, I had an awful experience on one. It had nothing to do with any of the tractor's moving parts, those that spent their time lying in wait for me to come close enough to get bitten or chewed or gouged or gnawed on. Tractors are savage and evil and should be sold with guards whose duty is to threaten them with both barrels ofa twelve gauge shotgun the minute they get out of line. Unfortunately, they don't, and one day the tractor decided to take me down to the bottom of a hill where one section of trees was planted. I swear I hadn't intended to work those trees that day; the tractor just drove me there before I realized what was happening. And that's when the trouble started. Trouble? No, that's when the scary stuff started.
Copyright © 2007 Darrell Bain.