Premonition.
It’s not a word I think about much. Maybe you do—but I sure didn’t. Not until this week, anyway.
I had a few of them in the last few days, and for a moment I started to wonder if maybe I was special. Like I had some kind of sixth sense. A magical ability to predict disaster just before it strikes. I mean, I could practically feel what was coming.
And yet… I did nothing about it.
It all started Monday night. I had just finished loading the big hay wagon with fresh round bales from our farm—that’s a good 45-minute haul away when you're pulling slow equipment. The sun was setting, the rain was coming, and I figured I’d sneak a load home while I still could.
I hooked up the trusty F-150, looked everything over, and there it was: a flat tire on the front wagon axle.
Now, here’s the kicker—that was the exact tire I’d been telling myself to replace for three days straight. I’d done the backs last year after a similar oops, and I knew the fronts were living on borrowed time. I had a bad feeling about it all week.
But did I change it?
Nope.
Tuesday morning came, and with it the now mandatory task of changing that tire—right there in the field, on a fully loaded hay wagon. Not exactly a quick fix. The jack slipped, the wagon shifted, and I ended up unloading all the bales just to get it sorted. One small advantage to a problem like that? Nobody’s around to watch your mistakes. No curious co-worker. Just me, a heavy wagon, and a good reminder that “I’ll deal with it later” usually comes back to bite.
Then came last night.
We’ve been scrambling to get a new shelter built for one of our sheep groups—trying to stay one step ahead of the heat. With the fields still too wet to plant, I figured I’d knock off a few post holes after supper to try to get ahead of things a bit. Just me, the tractor, and the auger.
I lined things up, double-checked the layout, and started into the first hole.
And then… a little thought floated through my brain:
“I wonder where that water and hydro line is—the one I buried last year for the water bowl in the other shelter.”
Not three seconds later—a funny little jostle in the auger. Hmm.
I stopped it, pulled it up… and there it was: a severed hydro line and a geyser to go with it.
And that’s how I found myself—along with Anne, who got roped into the mess—upside down in a muddy hole at 11 p.m., plugging a water line and moving sheep around to make sure everyone still had access to water overnight.
So what’s the moral here?
Honestly, the flat tire I can shake off. But that water line? That one had me properly upset. Because deep down, I knew. I had that gut feeling—that quiet nudge. And I didn’t act on it.
We’re all imperfect, aren’t we? No matter how much we try to stay ahead of the chaos, life still finds a way to throw a wrench—or a water line—into the works.
But after this week, I think for the next little while, when I get that strange tug in my brain—that whisper of “hmm, maybe double check”—I’ll listen a little closer.
Because nothing derails your evening quite like a soggy hole full of regret.
—Farmer Rod
Two Premonitions, Zero Action
