The Silo

The Silo
Only a few times in my life have I actually been truly scared. I mean really afraid. So afraid that you think you’re about to die and you’re no so sure that it’s a bad thing. So afraid that you don’t care who knows or who sees. The only thing that matters is the fear. You have to have actually lived through a moment like that to understand. You literally have to have been there, and I have.

I was about thirteen or fourteen years old at the time. The farmer down the road had just built a brand-new silo and it was the talk of the neighborhood. It stood there beside his barn gleaming white, new poured concrete reflecting the rays of the late summer sun. Its red and white domed roof looked like a hot air balloon rising into the sky. It was a beacon of hope at a time when the farmers were holding tight to every penny they had. It shouted that somebody, at least, was making some money.

He was proud of it too. All of the farmers around had been given the grand tour and had been shown the new delivery system that automatically unloaded the silage into a cart to be pushed through the barn and fed to the pigs. Nobody had to go up there to throw the silage out of the silo and down the chute. It’s very low tech by current standards but in 1968 it was state of the art.

The silo was eighty feet high. That’s not high compared to the Space Needle or the CN Tower but to a fourteen-year-old kid who isn’t too sure about heights, that’s a long way up. Not only that, but it’s a long way down too. A very long way down.

Mr. Silo was right on the ball when it came time to fill silo. He was among the first farmers in the area to have his silo full. He then sealed it up to wait the appropriate length of time for the corn to ferment and all traces of silo gas to disappear. Silo gas is a gas produced inside recently filled silos by the fermenting vegetation. It has killed many careless farmers. One was an old school chum of mine.

Now at this point I should probably mention that since Mr. Silos son was my best friend and since Dad knew all about the dangers of silo gas, I had been admonished several times to stay out of said silo. Actually I think a better word is “ordered.” I think what Dad said was: “If the silo gas doesn’t kill you I will.”

Heck Dad, why not just ask me to climb the Silo? That would have done more to keep me on the ground.

The day the silo was opened my buddy looked me right in the eye and asked me if I was scared to climb up to the top. I looked him right in the eye and laughed. Me? Scared? Oh man, I was so scared that my knees were actually shaking and we were still on the ground. I said, “Let’s go!”.

Out to the silo we went and started to climb. Ten feet . . . Not so bad. Twenty feet . . . Still not too bad but this was gonna be a long climb. At forty feet my legs were getting a bit sore and I had stopped looking down. By the time we had reached sixty feet I was more than ready for a little rest but Buddy wouldn’t stop. I was puffing like a steam engine, my ears were burning and my face was drenched with sweat by the time we hit the top. We hoisted ourselves through the hatch and there we were. Eighty feet up, inside a silo, with absolutely nothing to see but concrete, a brand-new silo unloader, silage and the underside of a red and white dome. By the way, those domes are only red and white on the outside. This was sure worth the climb.

I was bushed so we sat there staring at the scenery for half an hour or so and resting up for the climb back down. Finally we were ready and as usual Buddy took the lead. He swung his feet out of the hatch and disappeared. I was next. I crawled over to the hatch and stuck one foot tentatively over the edge. Hmmm . . . no rung. I felt around a bit with my foot but still no rung. Buddy below me was coaching me to just slide out a bit further and the rung was right there below my foot. I couldn’t feel a rung and I sure as heck wasn’t going to slide any more of my pudgy little body out of that hatch until I could.

I crawled back in and sat against the wall. To say that I was terrified would be an understatement. I could hardly breathe. We weren’t supposed to up here at all and now I was stuck. I was not about to stick my feet over that edge again. I told Buddy to go for help. He said no, but being a good friend he tried to offer me a little encouragement.

“I think I can smell silo gas!” he said.

Too bad. That could only be a blessing to me at this point. If they dragged my cold dead body out of that silo then at least, I wouldn’t have to stick my feet over that edge again. I stayed put. After what seemed like hours and several more lies about things like spiders, rats, bats and assorted fictional creatures buddy finally gave in and went for help.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the wait, or about the trip down with Mr. Silo's arms wrapped around me, guiding my progress. I do, however, remember sitting at their kitchen table with Buddy and being chewed out for what seemed like hours by Mr. Silo. I also remember his parting words to me that day.

“I don’t see any need for your father to hear about this unless you do.”