The speaker had a bland, boring look. The audience slid down further in chairs, scratched inappropriately, yawned and silently cussed themselves for not leaving when the last speaker finished. Now they were stuck for the duration. The guy's topic was farm safety. Important? Who'd disagree? Still, who likes being on the receiving end of a lecture, especially by this cadaverous guy?

He was stiff and formal at first. Rolled off the standard spiel. They'd all heard it before and would again. Tractors kill more people year-in, year-out than any other piece of farm equipment. Tractor overturns are the leading cause of death. Every year tractors kill almost 500 people in the United States. Rollovers account for half of those. Each year approximately 100,000 children are injured on farms. More than 100 are killed, and many of those are the result of falls from tractors.

For those who thrive on statistics, he droned, consider that you have a 75 percent chance of dying when involved in a tractor rollover.

A contagious yawn ran up and down the rows.

"If you have a rollover protective structure and a seat belt, you have a 95 percent or greater chance of not just surviving but of walking away from the accident," he intoned. He went on about how all the major equipment manufacturers are offering these kits at cost to dealers and asking them to sell the kits with little to no markup. Kits for most tractors cost less than $600.

All heads nodded. Eyelids drooped accordingly. They looked like a Sunday congregation 40 minutes into the sermon. Maybe that's what got under his skin.

"Despite the bellies I see out there," this guy spat contemptuously, "you think you can react fast enough, don't you? Well, you can't. A rollover takes 1.5 seconds to kill you. You can drive over someone you love in less than a second."

That perked them up. What's the matter with this guy? they wondered.

"Personalize the risk," he shouted way too loud. And he moved disjointedly on the stage, pointing wildly, staring everywhere, nowhere. Icabod first seeing the horseman. "That's what this is all about," he screamed, right through them.

"Stop right now and imagine," he commanded. "Do it with me. Look your wife in the eye. Explain how you just killed her son. Tell her how your life ended when that tractor mashed the life out of your boy. Can you do it?"

His voice pinned them to the chairs. For such a gangly man, he had power.

"No? Then try this," he shouted. "Tell your whole family how you'll never walk again. But it's OK," he said sarcastically. "They can take care of you for a change. I mean, what were the odds the tractor would roll down the pond dam? You've mowed that thing a hundred times."

A pause; then silence.

"Guess you won't again," he sneered. And he stalked off the stage.

An awkward silence followed. Then all the guys tried valiantly to shake it off. The we're-tough-guys shrug, sheepish grins, guy-was-too-intense comments. One man gave a short, harsh laugh. "He's nuts." Everybody within hearing barked agreeing laughs and tried to shake it off.

Later, they were told the speaker had faced his wife 3 years ago. He faced her just after their 8-year-old son fell beyond his grasp. The tractor and mower mercilessly killed the boy. Shortly thereafter, he had begged his neighbors who ran toward his anguished screams. "Please," he shrieked. "Please, shoot me."

Right, they thought, and again tried to shake it off. But oddly, they're still shaking. It's not off yet. And there's only one way to make sure it ever will be.