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My Fear
of Heights
Richard
Bishop
©
Copyright 2012 by Richard Bishop
Harvesting Trilogy:
Part Three - Haying:
Alfalfa
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My
being born
and raised
on farms
is by
now no
secret to
anyone. The
fresh air
and wholesome
environment left
me with
little to
complain about
as far
as health
goes. Tonsils
"out" and
fast cases
of the
Measles and
Chickenpox and
"that was
it" for
being hampered
by the
myriad illnesses
stalking most
child-hoods.
But
I had
one that
you cannot
see. And
you cannot
know about
it until
"the test"
comes along.
Like all
my peers,
I got
along with
it just
fine while
in grade
school. There
was no
place in
the Portage
3rd
Fractional "One-Room
Schoolhouse" to
challenge one
in how
to handle
high places.
Out-back
there was
a low
woodshed for
storing wood
for the
space-heater
and two
"outhouses" and
that was
all of
it for
our grade
school Complex.
And the
Bell Tower
was unreachable
for us
children. Because
of the
high ceiling,
the Repairman
had to
bring in
his own
15-foot
extension-ladder
just to
reach the
trap-door
to fix
the frayed
rope or
the bell
& wheel when
they were
out of
order. So
all this
time, my
malady escaped
being noticed
by me
and my
family and
my peers.
But,
I was
as vulnerable
as any
other human
being to
the unnerving
effects of
events beyond
my control.
Once, when
I was
about seven
or eight
years old,
I was
riding with
my Father
in our
REO Speedwagon
(the
REO brand
is an
abbreviation of
the name
of Mr.
R. E.
Olds; old-time
fans of
General Motors
products and
modern Rock
Music fans
will smile
over this).
It was
a sturdy
four-cylinder
medium-sized
truck with
a flat-box
type rack
on the
back.
All
of a
sudden smoke
and flames
started belching-up
through the
wooden slat-type
floor-boards.
I said:
"Aaaah, I'm
getting outta
here !" So
my Father
calmly slowed
to a
stop and
said: "Well,
get on
out." I
was in
such a
hurry to
save myself,
that I
jumped down
from the
high seats
right past
the running-board
and landed
on the
ground, running
scared.
Now,
my Father
was not
so easily
rattled. He
had been
in the
trenches "over-there"
in WW
I (1914
- 1918) and
had survived.
He switched
off the
ignition, got
down out
of the
vehicle, reached
around and
pulled up
the hard-wood
floorboards and
threw them
out onto
the ground.
Then he
reached down
to the
ground and
scooped up
loose sandy
earth with
his hands
and threw
it into
the space
around where
the transmission
ran through.
This snuffed-out
the fire
in short
order. It
turned out
to have
been an
electrical fire
-- caused by
a "shorted"
wire that
"sparked;"
causing the
old oil
on the
outside of
the engine
to start
burning (his
treatment was
better than
water would
have been;
had there
been any
available). He
had demonstrated
once more:
“coolness
under fire.”
I had
demonstrated a
classic case
of PANIC
in an
emergency
(otherwise
known as
"useless
under
fire");
not to
be confused
with: (1)
Chicken Little
shouting "the
sky is
falling" (after
an Acorn
drops on
his head)
or (2)
the fear
of heights.
When
I was
a little
older, I
should have
gotten a
clue from
a game
we had
of our
own invention.
Sometimes a
few neighborhood
kids would
come over
and we
would take
turns climbing
up a
ladder and
jumping off
from a
farm storage-
barn roof
where the
edge of
the roof
was about
12 feet
off the
ground. There
was a
pile of
straw to
break our
fall. Some
days I
would have
the courage
to jump
off and
some days,
I didn't.
But, I
could just
walk away
from it,
with no
consequences, whichever
way I
chose. I
guess that
made me
a "borderline"
case of
"the fear
of heights."
The
real life
confrontation was
not long
in coming.
It was
in late
1942 and
I was
just about
to arrive
at my
twelfth birthday
(from 9
November 1930).
Pearl Harbor
was 11
months past.
We were
in the
annual throes
of "bringing
in the
corn."
This
process entailed
the same
community effort
as "Threshing."
That is,
our Farm
was part
of a
"Ring" where
all Families
in the
Ring traded-off
help in
harvesting. A
crew of
field-hands
gathered together
in the
morning and
went out
to each
field of
"Field Corn"
to cut
it and
lay it
in bundles
within the
rows of
the now
remaining six-inch
standing cornstalks.
The corn
was usually
really wet
with dew
when the
first cuts
were made.
The miserable
wetness disappeared
along about
10:00
AM as
the Sun
burned off
the dew.
Usually, by
noon, enough
rows of
corn had
been cut
to keep
the silo-filler
going until
dark. The
field hands
then turned
to the
bringing in
of wagon-loads
of corn
bundles to
be un-loaded
into the
silo-filler.
The
"Custom-Operator"
of our
Ring had
a big
Allis-Chalmers
Tractor and
a silo-filler.
He also
furnished the
"pipe" running
up the
outside of
the silo
(and over
the top)
together with
the flexible
bucket-type
down-chute
for aiming
the down-flow
of ensilage
inside the
silo. On
the first
day, it
usually took
him about
three or
four hours
to set-up;
assembling (bolting
together) the
outside pipe
usually took
the longest
time -- depending
upon how
much help
he received.
Setting the
Tractor in
the right
place, digging
low holes
for the
wheels, placing
wheel-chocks,
and fitting
the belt
was only
a matter
of 45
minutes or
so.
We
had three
silos
(all
without
roofs;
thereby
exposing
the
contents
to
the
weather);
two
on
the North
end
of
the
most
distant
barn
about
150
yards
from
the
House.
The other
silo was
in the
middle on
the South
end. Each
silo had
had a
shingled-roof
at one
time in
their past.
Their roofs
had weathered,
and rotted,
and tumbled-down
long before
we came
to this
farm in
1933. All
that was
left was
half-inch
threaded-bolt
studs, complete
with rusted
nuts, protruding
about 5
inches and
placed every
24 inches
around the
concrete rim.
The wooden
roof had
been fastened
to the
concrete rim
with these.
That
brings us
to the
problem of
getting the
biggest volume
of ensilage
into each
silo. Taking
into account
that the
raw ensilage
will eventually
settle and
compact itself
by its
own weight,
it was
necessary to
figure out
some way
to compensate
for this.
Nobody wants
a silo
only three-quarters
full (weeks
later) when
they had
carefully filled
it chock-full
when the
silo-filler
was there.
And
so the
idea of
"topping-off"
was born.
Most of
our neighbors
had the
same conditions
with their
silos (the
few that
still had
roofs, just
had to
live with
the "settling"
problem). This
innovation was
accomplished by
attaching normal
hog-proof
"wire-fencing"
to the
top of
the silo
(using the
bolt-studs
and bailing-wire
to secure
the fence)
and running
it 360
degrees around
(hog-proof
fencing has
smaller holes
in the
fence at
the bottom).
The result:
another substantial
layer of
ensilage about
4.5
feet higher
than the
silo (which
would eventually
settle down
level with
the top
of the
silo). Naturally,
this meant
that the
silo-filler
pipe had
to be
built-up
that much
higher and
another two
flexible bucket-type
segments were
added to
the down-chute.
The
down-chute
was usually
handled by
a adult
Farmer and,
often, he
had a
young boy
helper to
tramp down
the ensilage.
I was
offered the
job because
I was
tall and
big for
my almost
12 years
and weighed
enough to
be an
effective "tamper."
As the
ensilage grew
in height
(and when
arriving at
the top
of the
silo) you
peeked out
to view
the surrounding
countryside through
a wire-fence
(psychologically this
seemed to
suffice, for
the time
being, as
a protective
element). That
usually set
the stage
for the
fun that
came later.
You see,
it's
one thing
to be
up high
with protecting
walls all
around you
and another,
completely different
thing to
be up
there with
no protection,
at all
!
Then,
you go
about tramping
your way
on up
to where
the wire
fencing fades
totally away
and now
there's
just nothing
left of
a protective
barrier and
only the
flexible bucket-type
down-chute
to hang
onto. One
false step
or a
slip on
the wet
ensilage and
you're
over the
side, irretrievably
! And
you were
lulled by
how easy
it was
to get
up there.
Question # 1:
Just
how do
you figure
on getting
down?
Whoa,
now hold
on here.
How could
a responsible
parent permit
his "child"
to be
involved in
such a
risky event?
Let me
say, in
defense of
both my
Mother and
Father, that
in the
first place,
I was
no longer
a "little
kid." I
was also
no longer
a child
. . . no matter
what the
law says
about 18
being the
"age of
Majority." I
had advanced
from Grade
School to
Junior High
School and
was beginning
the eighth
grade; the
last grade
of Junior
High. As
I indicated
before, I
was tall
and big
for my
age; had
driven a
tractor responsibly
for a
couple of
years already,
and performed
chores around
the Farm
(often filling-in
for the
adults and
older siblings).
I had
also learned
to drive
(only on
the Farm,
of course)
a 1929
Buick that
we used
for hauling
jugs of
cold water
to thirsty
field-hands.
Not only
those things,
but I
had done
my share
of climbing
like a
Monkey when
it came
time to
pick Pears
from our
three tall
Pear trees
and Apples
from the
Apple tree.
I was
also already
thinking about
starting to
smoke cigarettes
(but my
Father had
quit smoking
about then
and that
had cut
off any
ideas I
may have
had of
a surreptitious
supply). In
the end,
my Parents
had no
indication of
my being
anything but
quite mature
for my
age and
normally careful
in everything
I did
around the
farm; including
handling the
usual heavy
machinery. In
short, they
thought, and
rightly so,
that I
was at
the age
where I
could be
asked to
do the
difficult in
a safe
way . . . the
same respect
that adults
are given
by benevolent
task-masters.
This
brings me
to my
fear of
heights that
I didn't
really know
that I
had (and,
as a
complicating factor,
my Parents
didn't
know either).
I had
signed-on
for tramping-down
the ensilage
behind Mr.
Lon Peters,
who was
handling the
heavy down-chute
and placing
the flow
where needed
in orderly
rows. As
the level
of ensilage
rose up,
he detached
a bucket-type
segment of
the down-chute
(now no
longer needed)
and let
it down
to the
ground outside
on a
rope (and
out of
our way).
About that
time, we
installed another
wooden door
which sealed
the silo
and covered
the iron-rungs
of the
ladder on
the inside.
The rope
itself, was
attached to
the curved
top of
the pipe
and stayed
mostly out
of our
way by
poking it
out through
the iron-rungs
until the
next bucket-type
segment of
the down-chute
needed to
be let
down.
Everything
was fine,
until we
(and the
ensilage) went
up over
the top
of the
silo and
on up
to the
top of
the wire
fence. Then
the fear
of heights
"hit me"
and the
closest to
the edge
I would
venture was
about three
feet. And
so Mr.
Lon Peters
had to
tramp that
part down
. . . on out
to the
edge, all
by himself.
He was
fearless; I
became useless
(My
Rationalization:
He had
the flexible
bucket-type
down-chute
to hang
onto).
Now that
was a
pretty shaky
“support.”
He and
my Father
must have
had a
good laugh
over that,
later.
But
it was
not quite
laughing time
yet. This
silo was
finished and
it also
just happened
to be
quitting-time
for the
day and
we were
both faced
with letting
ourselves down
4.5
feet of
wire fence
to the
permanent iron
rungs of
the built-in
silo ladder.
I refused
to budge.
I was
nearly paralyzed
with fear
but instead
of admitting
it I
"fronted" the
reason that
the flimsy
fence-wires
bothered me
no end.
The fencing-ends
were held
together with
bailing-wire
"twists" and
I could
just visualize,
as I
applied my
weight climbing
down, the
whole highly-stressed
affair bursting
(or exploding)
with me
flying one
way and
a ton
of ensilage
flying another.
Stubbornness
goes in
our family
(and Mr.
Lon Peters
knew that)
so he
wisely decided
to leave
it as
a family
matter and
hollered for
my Father.
At the
moment, the
embarrassment of
my having
to get
help similar
to rescuing
a kitten
up a
tree did
not yet
register with
me. My
Father obliged
by calmly
climbing up
to use
adult reasoning
on a
mature 12
year old.
He urged
me to
try backing
down over
the edge
while he
reached up
from the
iron ladder
rungs with
a helping
hand. I
didn't
buy that,
either, because
a helping
hand goes
only so
far. . . . . but
not 4.5
feet. And,
besides, I
knew that
there was
virtually nothing
to hang
onto with
your hands
(except loose
ensilage) while
pouring yourself
down over
the side
for the
first "kicked-in"
footholds.
To
really get
the picture,
you have
to know
that most
area silos
were not
less than
10 meters
high (32.8
feet) and
the top
of our
concrete-cast
silo was
at least
10 feet
higher than
the slope
of the
barn roof
that passed
by about
five feet
away from
it.
- There was no U-shaped chute here to guide the ensilage down when shoveling the ensilage out of the silo at feeding-time
(on silos so equipped, a person on the iron ladder-rungs (my Father, for instance) could brace himself against the inside of the chute and have at least one hand free for other purposes). That was not the case here; there was nothing but wide-open space and a long drop.
Question
# 2: How
was
my
Father
supposed
to
stop
me
from
plunging
straight-down
(right
on
past
him)
when
he,
himself,
must
hang
on
"for
dear
life"
at
that
height
(10
feet
higher
than
the
barn)?
This
situation was
not filled
with the
same emergency
PANIC for
me (i. e., an
adrenalin surge)
that the
REO truck
fire had
engendered. Here,
I slowly
wondered
how I
could have
voluntarily
gotten
myself into
such a
DUMB
predicament. I
must have
said: "Sure,
I'll
do it"
- without thinking
of all
the consequences.
And my
Father (who
often installed
the fencing
on top
of the
silos around
the neighborhood
for Ring
members) and
Mr. Lon
Peters (who
always supervised
the tramping
& tamping) had
climbed up
and down
safely so
many times
that they
had forgotten
what it
was to
be a
"Newcomer" on
such matters
(they each
had no
more fear
of heights
than a
legendary Mohawk
Indian "High-Iron"
Construction-Worker
building the
Empire State
Building !).
Once
more, I
thought only
of myself
and my
only thought
was: "How
am
I
going
to
get
out
of
this,
alive?"
I had
visions of
the Kalamazoo
Fire Department
having to
come out
and use
their biggest
Fire Truck
with the
40-foot
extension-ladder
to get
us both
down. That
would take
at least
45 minutes.
And that
made the
potential embarrassment
of it
all finally
"catch-on"
in my
brain . . . . I
could just
see the
"He-hawing"
of the
entire field-hand
crew over
this . . . . this
would give
the community
weeks of
amused conversation
. . . . and maybe
even make
the Kalamazoo
Gazette !
So,
part of
my Father's
little talk
was aimed
at convincing
me that
the "jury-rigged"
wire fence
would easily
hold my
weight. This
was mildly
persuasive since
he was
telling me
that it
always held
the weight
of Mr.
Lon Peters,
a Grandfatherly
man of
considerable bulk
(who,
incidentally
he said,
had gotten
down that
way safely
at other
Farms all
over the
neighborhood).
Well !
For that
matter, I
allowed as
how I
had never
seen him
(or anybody
else) do
that “Circus”
trick.
Sundown
was rapidly
coming on,
so he
"changed ground"
and tried
a different
tack. He
asked me
if I
wanted to
try to
come down
in the
dark by
flashlight or
did I
wish to
stay up
there all
night. That
did it
and this
reasoning overcame
all my
objections. In
the end,
I held
onto the
fencing wires
with my
fingers in
a "death-grip"
and, by
kicking my
shoe-toes
into the
dense, tamped
ensilage through
the wire
fence "holes,"
I carefully
backed down
the four-and-a-half
foot side
of the
"topping-off"
to where
my Father
could get
a one-handed
grip on
me by
my belt.
Out of
sheer fright,
I would
have closed
my eyes
but I
needed them
wide-open
to place
my hands
and feet
correctly !
And
somehow, miracle
of miracles,
my clutching
grasp and
the bailing-wire
that held
the whole
contraption together,
kept us
both from
landing in
a heap
at the
bottom of
the iron-runged
ladder under
half a
ton of
ensilage !
Monday
Morning Quarterbacking
This
whole situation
could have
been de-fused
if Mr.
Lon Peters
had gone
ahead and
climbed down;
demonstrating to
a young
pupil how
it's
done. But,
I suppose
he wanted
to see
that I
got down
safely -- before
he departed
for Supper.
That is,
I was
mighty glad
that he
was still
there to
lay out
flat and
give me
rock-steady
hands to
hold onto
(part of
the way
down) as
I backed
gingerly over
the side
(I now
have some
idea of
how new
rock-climbers
must feel
when they
have to
let themselves
down over
the side
of a
sharp cliff
without hand-holds
of any
kind except
for the
cliff-face
itself).
Of
course (as
a last
resort), there
was always
the solid
pipe running
up the
side of
the silo
which a
person could
use to
slide down
-- like a
thick Fire-House
pole -- using
the bolted
section-joints
every 5
feet or
so as
stopping footholds.
And, for
added security,
there was
the attached
rope (for
lowering down
no longer
needed segments
of the
down-chute).
Epilogue
In
the Summer
of 1944,
at the
age of
thirteen, while
taking a
few flying
lessons in
a Piper
J-3
Cub, these
fears lay
dormant.
The
next years,
while a
passenger on
a variety
of military
and civilian
airplanes, gave
me no
trouble regarding
my fear
of heights.
My twenty-five
years in
the Military:
while it
provided many
incidents where
I was
a witness
to various
types of
PANIC reactions
of others
, I was
luckily spared
any such
embarrassment that
would have
amused others
or confounded
my Superiors.
Speaking
of the
Military, while
stationed in
Japan, from
1959 to
1962, we
received a
visitor from
the United
States whom
we took
downtown to
see the
sights of
Tokyo. We
visited the
Tokyo Tower
(333 meters
or 1,091
feet high)
which was
built shortly
before, in
1958. It
had a
built-on
observation platform
at 250
meters or
820 feet.
My wife
was very
brave and
looked over
the side.
Nothing in
the world
could convince
me to
get anywhere
near the
safety-railing.
I was
not alone;
our visiting
friend refused
the pleasure
also !
In
the 1980s,
after my
retirement from
the Military
(in 1976),
myself, and
my wife,
Elfi, and
my sister,
Betty, and
her husband,
Willie, visited
a 73-story
skyscraper in
Detroit, Michigan,
formerly called
the General
Motors
Renaissance
Center. It
was opened
in 1977
and is
221 meters
or 727
feet high.
It had
a modern
outside
elevator. Things
were going
OK until
I saw
the other
skyscraper buildings
rapidly dropping
far below
us. Then
I could
only cope
with it
standing in
the center
of the
elevator car
with my
eyes closed
most of
the time
. . . taking little
peeks once
in a
while to
keep my
bearings. I
wondered
once more,
as I
did back
on the
silo: "How
am
I
going
to
get
out
of
this
alive?"
Fast
forward a
total of
fifty-five
years. I
remember standing
back a
(seemingly safe)
distance from
the window
while staying
on the
21st Floor
of the
Monte Carlo
Hotel and
Casino in
Las Vegas,
Nevada. It
was brand-new
building but
the walls
in our
room just
didn't
seem thick
enough. I
thought once
more of
how the
fragile
fencing
(added to
the top
of our
silo) only
marginally
provided a
protective
barrier.
Fast
forward a
total of
sixty years.
While on
a trip
to Las
Vegas, Nevada,
in January,
2001, standing
at the
edge of
the Grand
Canyon gave
me the
same weird
feeling. I
don't
believe that
I would
want to
walk around
the fairly
recently opened
(2007) horseshoe-shaped
observation platform
called Skywalk.
The glassed-over
walkway circles
over a
drop of
1,200
meters or
3,937
feet, straight
down beneath
your feet
!
And
as for
the Stratosphere
Tower (in
one of
my favorite
cities), Las
Vegas, Nevada;
it was
opened in
1996 and
is 350
Meters or
1,149
feet high.
I would
never, ever,
take one
of the
four thrill
rides on
the top
of it.
And
as for
the Burj
Kalifa, in
Dubai, the
World's
tallest building
(or Skyscraper,
at 829.84
Meters or
2,723
feet) since
its grand
opening in January
2010, No
thanks -- I
don't
even like
to read
about it
!
Contact
Richard
(Unless
you type
the author's
name
in
the subject
line
of
the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Richard
Bishop's Biography and Story List
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