The year is 1966, I was six years old sharing a room with my four brothers in a small house on Stanton St. in Streator. Our room had two bunk beds, and I was lucky enough to get the top bunk facing the window looking out on Park St. I was one of seven kids, my three sisters shared a room, and my parents had the other.

                To say the house was busy would be a massive understatement. My Father was busy at working at Caterpillar and my mom was now stay at home with her hands full to say the least. When she was working, she worked at Owen’s glass factory, where she met my father. Streator Police practically lived at our front door, with daily visits looking for one of my brothers, or occasionally even my sisters. Life was different back in the 60’s, we didn’t have smart phones, instant gratification, and unlimited entertainment in our pockets. We had to be more creative to spend our time.

                My life was pretty normal for a Streator hooligan. My brothers and I made a career of it until I had children of my own. I was an average man, worked my whole life, 2.5 kids and a dog, the American dream. Every part of my life was normal, except that day in 1966 that still gives me chills to the bone when I think about it.

                I was sitting on the top bunk in the early morning hours in the summer of ’66, just trying to stay asleep before the inevitable circus began. It wouldn’t be long before my brothers woke me up with a punch in the arm, but that is not how things would happen this morning. A loud repetitive sound caught my attention, and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I was powerless from letting it interrupt my sleep. I sat up in my bed rubbing my eyes and trying to get my bearings, the sound seemed to get louder with each repetition.

                I looked gazed out the window into the hazy morning light, letting my eyes adjust when something caught my eye. I quickly realized the source of the sound was coming from outside, just across the street. Through the sunrise reflecting the morning dew, I could see a figure sitting on a tractor in his front yard. He was a large man, wearing overalls and a farmer’s hat.

                I walked passed his house every day but never really paid much attention to it. It was a two story house, no different than any others in the area, but at this moment it was commanding my attention. I heard the loud sound again as the tractor’s back hoe broke earth in the farmer’s front yard. I was so distracted by the noise that I didn’t realize what the farmer was doing.

                Sitting upon his tractor, the farmer was casually and methodically digging a hole in his front yard. My mind began to race, bombarded with scenarios as to what he was doing. My first thought was it was simple landscaping, but as I continued to watch him, a large pit was growing in my stomach. With each stroke of the tractor, the hole in the ground became deeper, and the void in my gut was became larger. My heart pulse quickened and my heart was thumping hard in my chest. I cold feel my throat begin to tighten as I was engulfed with an inexplicable mortal fear.

                The backhoe slammed into the dirt again as the sound penetrated my skull, seemingly coming from inside my head this time. Unable to look away, I started having trouble catching my breath, and just when I thought I couldn’t take it for another second, it suddenly stopped. The sound of machinery dissipated, but the man just sat there on the tractor, unmoving. It was as if he was suddenly replaced with a scarecrow, or he was somehow part of the machine, and stopped moving when it did.

                He sat there for a moment that seemed to last forever. The dread I was feeling was not going away, as I continued watching him, just waiting for him to move. My heart thumped harder and harder in anticipation, but the moment would not come. He did not move a single muscle and I was started to question if I was actually seeing what I was seeing. An eternity must have passed while I was fixated on the farmer. Despite my fear, I just couldn’t look away until he moved again.

                I don’t know if it was a sound, or just a feeling, but suddenly my attention was drawn to my bedroom door. I knew it was impossible, but at the same time I already know what I would see in my door way. My heart dropped as I realized the farmer was now standing directly in the door frame, his eyes looking straight through me, into my very soul. I desperately wanted to look back out the window, to somehow confirm what I was seeing. I was too afraid of what would happen if I looked away, I was too afraid of what I would see if I looked back out the window.

                It felt as the air was sucked out of the room as the farmer just stood their, unflinching. The two of us became statues, each waiting for the other to move first. I was unable to move, and somehow I think he knew that. Without a moment notice, he raised hand pointing his finger at me. Not at my person or physical being, but at something deep inside of me, my essence or soul. I opened my mouth to gasp but nothing came out. The moment was surreal, but I was sure it was actually happening. More sure than I have ever been of anything before or since.

                As quickly as the moment had begun, it was suddenly over. The man was gone, and the earth began to spin again. The hustle and bustle started to fill the hallways of our tiny house, and my brothers began to wake up to start their morning routine. Without getting up from my bed, I took a deep breath, and savored the air that was so scarce just a few minutes ago. I looked back out the window, and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

                Nothing. There was no tractor. There was no farmer. There was no freshly dug hole in the front yard of the two story house. I know it wasn’t a dream because I never woke up. The farmer had disappeared just as quickly as he appeared in my bedroom.

                A year later my brothers and I were hit by a car crossing the street by the laundry mat. Besides that, the rest of my childhood was uneventful, as was my adult hood. I never did see the farmer again, or anything strange for that matter. I am just an ordinary man with an ordinary life. I had kids, grandkids, and retired to a quiet life in Streator. I have been married, divorced, loved and lost. But sometimes, in the late night or early morning hours, my heart quickens when I think about what I might see if I were to look out my bedroom window.

                The thought crosses my mind from time to time, the question really. Why was the farmer digging a hole in his yard? Did he even exist? If I was dreaming, I often wonder if my entire life was anything more than just a dream. Just when I think I have forgotten the memory of the event, it creeps back into my mind. It lives somewhere deep in the back of my subconscious. I don’t know what scares me more, seeing the farmer again one day, or waking up from that dream as six year old boy, with a life unlived.