My first tractor was a foreign-made, off-brand machine, that served its purpose fairly well, for a number of years. Unfortunately, I came to realize that every year, I would have to repair, replace or reconstruct some major component of the implement for it to be useful for another year. By the time I traded it off for a good, American-made tractor, I had replaced enough of its essential parts that I had no problem in proclaiming it, “As good as new.”
A goodly number of health-related issues over the past couple of years have left me wondering, when I arise each morning, which body part I will need to have repaired, replaced or reconstructed. Such was the case this last Christmas Day.
The kids had come out to the farm for the weekend, and Judy had been busy preparing the Christmas feast. Since we don’t have any grandchildren, our immediate family that gathers for any holiday is quite small. However, that does not prevent my wife from preparing enough delicious food to feed a platoon of soldiers returning from a 20-mile march. She rationalizes that enough food can be sent home with the kids to alleviate a need for them to cook, until sometime in March.
Regardless, there are enough tasty pies, cakes, candies and other treats scattered throughout the house that even after stuffing oneself on the main meal, you can justify, “Just a bite of this couldn’t hurt…much.”
At the conclusion of Christmas day, Judy had filled about two dozen plastic containers of food, to send home with the children. When all had left, I waddled off to bed, feeling as bloated and miserable as a cow that had just OD’d on Johnsongrass. As I lay in bed, I ran my hand over my swollen belly and up over my chest. When my hand reached the scar that had formed from my open-heart surgery last summer, I let out blood-curdling scream.
My wife rushed into the bedroom in a panic. “What is wrong?” she cried out.
“My incision has broken open, and I have bled enough to produce a huge scab.”
Judy quickly turned on the bedside lamp, threw back the bed covers, and looked down at my chest. There, on the surface of my chest, was a piece of peanut brittle candy, adhered to my surgery scar.
Jerry Crownover farms in Lawrence County. He is a former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University, and is an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry, go to ozarksfn.com and click on ‘Contact Us.’
