The day I thought I lost my mind

By Tedi Schmoll of Ogilvie

By Tedi Schmoll of Ogilvie

I’m not too sure of the exact date, but I remember the event like yesterday. Just think how many times there has been a trauma in your own life, you know you can recall it vividly.

We were over at the blue farm, Martin and I, and we intended to put in some corner posts.

“Mom,” the kids had said to me, “if you want to raise sheep, you have to put up fence ‘cuz we are not going to chase sheep anymore, we’re done being sheep dogs.”

So I planned a fence where we could stretch up some netting, or as you may call it woven wire. What I needed was a good post to stretch it up to.

So there Martin and I were with the International W-6, which was a decent tractor we used for everything, including fencing. Having attached a Shaver hydraulic post driver, it could drive a six-inch post into the ground four or five feet without even having to put a sharp end on the post. I saw a Shaver driver pound such a post into the blacktop at the Minnesota State Fair. I looked for one for sale and I bought it. It was huge, and powerful, and gorgeous.

Martin was slowly easing the tractor along behind me and I was stepping cautiously across a slight depression and... BAM! You guessed it, a wreck, and it wasn’t even on a hillside. I was struck and flung flat onto my stomach and Martin was beside me.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom!” he was calling.

I couldn’t speak. I was down, stunned, and breathless, and I knew I had been run over by my own post driver. I knew I might be dying, but was not certain that I was completely dead yet. I reached up onto the back of my head while still flat on my stomach and grabbed a handful of wet gooey stuff that I thought might very well be my own brain matter.

“Martin, what is this?” I said in a muffled voice.

“Mom! Mom! Are you all right?” he desperately asked. He ignored my request as to what the wet, disgusting stuff was in my hand.

“Martin, what is this wet stuff?” I asked again, turning my head just a slight bit so my brain wouldn’t fall out.

“Mom, it’s all wet leaves.”

“On the back of my head?” I questioned.

“Are you all right?” he said to me, now kneeling down peering into my face, as I hadn’t really moved.

I was greatly relieved to understand my brain was not smashed. I felt my head again and slowly raised into a sitting position. I peered closely at the soggy mess in my hand. Having lost my glasses, I held it up very close to my eyes to see if it was really all wet leaves. I was slowly coming to my senses.

“Martin,” I said, “see if you can find my glasses.”

Grateful to be of use, he started looking and feeling around in the disturbed leaves and finds what’s left of my glasses – one bow attached to one lens in good shape, and no lens or bow on the other side.

“Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? I am sorry! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean for the post driver to hit you!” he continued.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Martin. I tripped,” I assured him.

He didn’t believe me. I insisted I tripped and he didn’t cause my fall, that I was falling because I tripped. He still doubted me.

“I felt the driver strike my shoulder, but I was falling forward already,” I said.

We looked in the disturbed, dug-up area and, lo and behold, there was a number nine wire, a woven wire bottom strand pulled up from the sod. A perfect fit for the toe of the big Red Wing boot I was wearing. Exploring further in the leaves, there was the top of a huge buried granite rock the size of a melon exactly where the post driver bottomed out. That is why the weld sheared and the post driver swiveled forward in a mini split second to whop me on the shoulder at the same instant I tripped and fell forward. If I hadn’t been falling forward, it would have caved in my skull and brained me.

I almost lost my mind that day, but didn’t. That day I believed for sure I had a guardian angel.