. . . - . . . . . .

In about 1966 Dad had me plow the last piece of sagebrush which had been growing since before the pioneers came.
The sage brush was taller than me, and taller than the tractor. I worked on this for several weeks.
As I was about to start the last swath, there was a thunderstorm approaching. I figured I could go down and back up the field
before the ground was saturated and the tractor would sink into the mud. Just as I was reaching the top of the field
a large lightning strike hit very close to the tractor. Every hair on my body was standing straight out from the static electricity.
I turned off the tractor, got off, and almost crawled back to the closest buildings, about a half a mile away.

. . . . . .