Even after so many years, tears still fill my eyes when I think of my brother’s farm accident. That was 67 years ago, and now—at 79 years old—the invisible scab remains that only hides the emotional wound.
My brother John then, as now, is a boisterous, loud, and cheerful guy. He is the fellow you want at your party to liven it up. He was a wonderful and loving childhood brother. John included me in his sports practice and was just a fun person to be around. (There was only that one mischievous moment when he tied me upside down in a tree for a while.)
As a teenager of 14, John was occasionally kept home from school to help with the beet harvest. This was a common occurrence on farms during harvest time. On that deceptively sunny day, my brother was driving the tractor whose power take off kept the beet picker working. Following the picker was a wagon where the beets were propelled. My father rode in that wagon, pushing the beets to the rear. Behind the wagon was a second wagon driven by my father’s friend. This was the parade going down the beet brown on that bright, cheery morning.
Darkness raised its head when the beet picker became jammed. As the story is told, my brother hopped off the tractor to clear the jam—leaving the power on. As he reached to clear it, his shirt sleeve caught in the still rotating gears. Immediately my brother’s arms were mangled in the apparatus.
My father leaped off the wagon and ran to turn off the power. What my brother still remembers today is what our father shouted, “Pray, John, Pray!” This is the scream of humanity when life becomes desperate.
My brother felt no pain at the time. He was in shock. Fortunately, two days prior, my dad had experimented with the machine and found that—with the power off—he would be able to slide a person down the shaft. That’s what he then did: he slid John down the shaft to freedom. John was placed in the back of the car wrapped in a sheet, and my father’s friend drove frantically to a local hospital nine miles away. My dad sat in the back of the car with his arms around John, assuring him over and over that things would be okay.
When they arrived, two surgeons advised that my brother’s arms needed amputation. “No,” my father told them. “No. There must be someone who can help.”
There was someone. The hospital’s surgeons remembered that on that very day, a specialist in Milwaukee was giving a seminar. The physician was contacted and left his own seminar to drive out to where John was being treated, about 40 minutes away. He told our local hospital to prepare for surgery immediately. This angel whose name we don’t recall repaired John’s nerves, veins, and muscles.
Then the long process of healing began. John had old-fashioned casts put on. No one today can quite remember how long the casts were on, but we do recall that we had to feed John ourselves.
John’s recovery may have been sped up by a normal teenage growth spurt. His deepest desire was to play sports again, so he focused all his energy on that dream. Once the casts were off, he practiced daily. All of that concentrated energy and work paid off.
By his senior year of high school, John was quarterback of the varsity football team. He played catcher in baseball and was rated all-state catcher his senior year. The All-State Silver Sluggers invited him to play in the Braves stadium. John had two major league tryouts and played amateur baseball for years. He was elected to the local league’s Hall of Fame. After marriage and children, John coached soccer, softball, and basketball.
I still tear up when I tell this story. Although we’ve rarely talked about the accident, I asked him about it just a few weeks ago. John said there are many people who persevere and seek their dreams. I told him that living bravely is what makes someone a hero. Sixty-seven years later, he still is mine.
by Esther Goetz 
by Emily Roussell 
