He could, and did often, tell the story of his life by pointing to his numerous scars. He was a farmer, and many of the scars were reminders of events that could have been fatal if things had come together differently.

There weren’t any stories of tornados or lightning strikes (the fate of another uncle, his son-in-law and two grandsons), but there were attacks by protective mother pigs and other barnyard animals, equipment-related mishaps (like unprotected drive shafts that stripped off every stitch of his clothing – twice) and an accident involving an axe and his head.

With the exception of at least three auto collisions, most of these accidents were without witnesses, but the audience that saw the most spectacular of all was sure that it was Dad’s grand finale.

He called me from his hospital bed.

“Everything’s OK, son. Just had a little accident. I was driving a combine across a one-lane bridge when a dump truck full of crushed rock lost its brakes and hit me from behind. Don’t worry, I’m just scratched up a little.”

Midwestern farm life and constant exposure to its extreme weather tends to eliminate the need to exaggerate or elaborate on any significant event. If it didn’t do you in, if you’re “still kicking,” that’s life. And if you’re not kicking any more, well, that’s how it is.

The witness said that the impact threw Dad from the high platform of the combine, and that he slid fifty yards or so on the gravel.

Dad was about sixty years old at the time. Mom had died a couple of years earlier. I rushed back from Boston to be with him for a couple of days, and by the time I reached him, Grandpa was in the next bed, having suffered a stroke while visiting Dad. At least the care was immediate, but Grandpa didn’t regain consciousness, and died a few days later. He was 90. Dad had been discharged, and made it to the funeral.

There weren’t any more accidents after that (at least that he told my brothers and me about). Dad married again a few years later. He and his new bride, Joyce, took up traveling and gambling, and he won at the dollar slots so often that everyone decided that he was blessed with good luck, which he reinforced with a pair of “lucky socks” that he bought in Harrod’s while sightseeing in London.

He died at the age of 81. I wasn’t able to be there when he passed away, but Joyce reported that his expression showed utter surprise when his heart failed, but that he settled back with a smile.

We buried him in his lucky socks. And Joyce found a story that he had written about the dog that had been at his side constantly during those years after Mom died.

The story, as expected, brought down the house. Now that’s art.