The Seed Drill And Me
When I was in about the fifth or sixth grade I went with Grandpa to sow some barley in a field not too far from home. When we arrived at the field Grandpa drove the tractor and I rode on the seed drill. I sat on top of the seed bins facing backward. At the time I didn’t understand that the wheels turned small gears that allowed a seed to drop into the tube that directed it to its new home in the furrowed soil. All I knew was the seeds came out and fell into the tube. Ignorance may be bliss but it can also be dangerous. As I watched the seeds drop into the tubes I noticed that no seeds were dropping into on of the tubes. In my childish exuberance to do a good job I stuck the forefinger of my left hand into the place where the seeds came out. Because of my lack of understanding, when I put my finger into that confluence of gears the tip of my finger was caught and pulled into the gears. It felt like a little pinch and I quickly withdrew my hand. I wasn’t alarmed until I looked at my finger. The flesh and fingernail were gone and the bone was sticking out of a bloody stump. Being of a mature age, I informed Grandpa with a blood curdling scream and then jumped off the seed drill and ran home as fast as I could. Being as informed about physiology as I was about mechanical operation, little did I realize that running that fast and that far, all while wailing at the top of my lungs, didn’t particularly slow my heartbeat and the bleeding. Grandpa realized that something bad had happened and stopped planting. He unhitched the seed drill and followed me home on the tractor. However, I arrived first. I was soon in the care of the town doctor who pulled the remaining flesh up over the tip of the bone and sewed it together. He said I’d never have a fingernail. He placed a metal sheath over my finger to protect it and I went home a sadder but wiser person. That was a painful but effective way to learn that understanding a problem is an unavoidable prerequisite to fixing it if one wants to first do no harm.
