Here's another odd email that I received.

The title the writer gives it is Strangeness in the South 40.

Our farm operation was several years behind the times.

Our neighbors planted straight rows using using GPS, and enjoyed the

comfortable controlled environment of a modern tractor. We didn't always have the luxury of a cab,

guided by dead reckoning. The tractors that did have cabs were nothing more than a noisy box

to shelter from wind and rain.

I had learned to layer clothing to utilize my own body heat.

I actually preferred to drive an open station unit anyway.

There was something about the feel and smell of that evening.

The chill fall air was pleasant against my face, and I could smell the

rich earth as the dirt glided and rolled through the three-bottom plow I was pulling.

I was operating one of my favorite tractors. It was built several years before I was even born,

but it stood up proudly to the duties ask of it.

The old farmall imperred like the well-tuned machine it was, and I admired the shine of the red

hood before me. Hence of warmth came from the exhaust stack that lightly glowed from the work

strain, and it was a wonderful evening to be farming.

Dusk was starting to darken the pale, clear sky now. The colorful pastel canvas displayed shades

of blue, green, and hints of red. It wasn't quite dark enough to really need lights,

but shadows were starting to creep from the timbered field edge.

Darkness was beginning to claim the landscape.

This particular area of the farm could give a particular sense of foreboding.

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