A MISS IS A MILE

As a boy, I loved the tractor.  When I was quite young I loved riding on Grandpa’s lap, thinking I was helping him steer.  I still love the feel of my hands on a steering wheel.  Being a farm boy I learned to drive early, starting with the tractor and then other vehicles, all before being formally taught how to drive so I could get my drivers license.  Now, more than fifty years later I still love to drive.  I love the feel of pure acceleration and tight handling.  Those enjoyments expressed themselves at an early age, though acceleration on a tractor was relative to my age.  As I got older I grew bolder.  My confidence often outweighed my judgment which laid the groundwork for this story.  Grandpa grew a lot of alfalfa.  He owned several different fields around town and each was located a fair distance from the farm yard.  He used large flatbed wagons pulled originally, and still sometimes, by horses but by the time I was around, mostly by tractor.  On one occasion, I was driving the tractor while Grandpa rode on the hay wagon.  On the way to the field we needed to stop for gas.  There were only two pumps at the gas station and you could access them from either side.  As we approached the station a car was filling on the side of the pumps that would have allowed us a straight in approach.  In order to get to the other side of the pumps I had to maneuver into position by executing a large, sweeping u-turn.  I liked to drive the tractor at full speed as often as I could, though associating the concept of speed with driving a tractor was a brutal attack on common sense.  This occasion was no exception.  I didn’t even slow down to make this magnificent turn.  As I swung around it became uncomfortably apparent to me that I had not taken into account the width of the wagon I was pulling.  Still, I didn’t lessen my speed.  As the corner of the wagon swung in a wider arc than the one the tractor had made, the corner of the hay wagon missed colliding with the gas pump by no more than an inch.  It was far too close for comfort.  When I had finally brought us to a stop  I turned to look at Grandpa.  I knew I had been careless and almost created a problem that could have escalated to a catastrophic level.  He looked at me and calmly said, “Well, a miss is a mile.”  I knew that he knew I had been foolish but very fortunate, more so than my skill warranted.  But more importantly, he knew that I knew I had made a terrible miscalculation and that was enough for him.  His “a miss is a mile” comment made it clear to me that though I had been careless and spared a dire consequence by being more fortunate than skilled, I wouldn’t always be so fortunate.  But for now no harm had been done.  Nothing more needed to be said.  His message to me was clear.  More importantly, it was kind.  I never repeated that mistake in judgment.