Autumn misadventures

Driving can be a grisly task in the autumn, when an endless stream of juicy late-summer bugs clatter against the windshield like miniature jackhammers.

This isn’t what the bugs had in mind. They didn’t emerge from their pupas and say, “Now, if I can just find a speeding car. I want to go out with a big splat.”

These collisions are no doubt accidental, a messy end to a carefree existence of flitting about in the transparent ether. It’s ironic that these collisions make our windshields less transparent.

Life is full of unintended consequences. Some consequences are more consequential than others.

For example, one autumn, I decided to install a new steel roof on our old chicken coop. This shouldn’t be very consequential except that I’m a klutz.

My wife and our two young sons were away at a ball game. “Perfect,” I thought. “Nobody will be around to ask annoying questions like ‘Why do you hammer your fingers if it hurts so much?’ and ‘What do those words mean?’”

Things went swimmingly until my klutziness kicked in. Somehow — duplicating this would tax the skills of a professional gymnast — I stumbled, and the back of my wrist smacked the edge of a sheet of steel.

Initial examination revealed no damage. But then, I bent my wrist downward, and one of its wrinkles opened up. Glistening, salmon-colored flesh smiled up from the depths of the yawning crevasse.

It didn’t hurt or even bleed. Just when I began to think I might only need a little bandaging, the blood began to trickle. The trickle soon became a torrent.

There was very little discomfort, so I was more annoyed than hurt. I went to the house and bound my wound with an old dish towel. The towel quickly became soaked.

It occurred that stitches might be needed, but alas, the laceration was on my right wrist, and I’m tragically non-ambidextrous. Self-suturing was out of the question.

So, I drove myself to the local emergency room. As the stitches were being installed, I heard one of the ER people say, “Calm down, ma’am. We’ll check and see if he’s here. What’s your phone number?”

As the ER attendant began to read back the number she was being given, I correctly rattled off the last four digits of our phone number. My anxious wife was on the phone.

According to my wife, she and our sons came home to a grisly spectacle. It looked as though someone had used our kitchen to recreate the infamous shower scene from the movie “Psycho.” That’s an exaggeration; I don’t recall leaving spatters on the wall or the ceiling.

Another unfortunate misfortune happened another autumn when I was getting ready for silage chopping.

The chopper’s header needed extensive repairs, so I removed it and hung it by a chain from the loader. As I lay beneath the header and wrestled with a recalcitrant bearing, it occurred that this might not be the best place to be should the header fall.

I had just moved my noggin from beneath the heaviest part of the header when I heard the metallic “thrrrp” of a slipping log chain. The header slammed down where my head had been seconds earlier.

My face was scraped and cut by the header during its plummet, and one leg was trapped beneath several hundred pounds of cold, hard steel. I was otherwise unhurt, except for my pride.

I faced a dilemma. If I could just get my leg out; I could grab a nearby spud bar, pry up the header and free myself. But, if I could get my leg out, there would be no need to lift the header.

I opted to yell for help instead of continuing to consider this circular conundrum. Fortunately, my brother was nearby to hear my hollers and release me from my steel trap.

Another trip to the ER ensued, along with another set of stitches. Because of her reaction to the previous incident, I opted not to tell my wife.

That evening, she asked what was wrong with my face.

“Nothing,” I replied breezily. “You know how Michael Jackson wears just one glove? The latest thing is to wear mascara on just one eye.”

She then pointed out the stitches above my eye.

“That’s just age coming on. Everyone knows that guys often sprout extra eyebrows as they get older.”

She didn’t buy it. After hearing about the day’s misadventure, she let me know how stupid and careless I had been. She was right, as usual.

Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug, but it’s best if you can avoid becoming either of them.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.