Fall is one of my favorite times of the year. When my wife, Judy, and I operated our private veterinary practice, farmers in the field meant that we could take a leisurely lunch together or perhaps slip away to the Farm Science Review for part of the day.

Farmers became totally focused on corn and soybean harvest, with little time for the coffee shop or to call the vet. They usually focused so intently on harvest that they had no time for levity, waxing philosophical or taking part in local events.

During this year’s crop harvest I have had more time to reflect on past autumns, good times with Judy and my downtime ventures into mischief. Regarding the latter, I offer you the following true story from several years ago. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty. I call this “The Sting.”

I had stopped to visit Bret to report pseudorabies blood test results for his show pigs. As I stood at the kitchen door chewing the fat with Bret, I heard his father Richard’s voice come over the shortwave FM radio. (This was in the days before cell phones came into wide use.) Richard was calling Bret’s brother, Bick. He said, “Bick, there is a huge 10-point buck coming down the corn rows right where you are parked.” Bret quickly turned the radio down before I could hear the rest of the conversation. Bret kind of rolled his eyes. I interpreted this to mean he didn’t want to discuss the possibility his father and brother were hunting a deer out of season.

Bret and I were wrapping up our conversation just as his dad’s radio transmission came through. I bid him good-bye and headed to my truck.

As I drove away, I thought that perhaps I could make something more interesting out of what I had heard over the radio.

When I got back to the office, I called Richard’s home phone, thinking that I would get voice mail. Instead, Richard’s wife, Gwen, answered. In the most official-sounding voice I could muster, I told her, “This is Sergeant Kowalski with the Ohio Department of Natural Resources.” My act must have been pretty convincing, as I could sense concern on the other end of the line. I, as Sergeant Kowalski, told Gwen, “I have reason to believe that a family member of yours has been hunting deer from the cab of a combine.”

I went on to cite the pertinent section of the Ohio Revised Code about hunting out of season, a misdemeanor. Gwen stammered, “Who is this?”

 I replied, “Sergeant Kowalski.”

“Who are you with?”

“The ODNR.”

 “Would you spell your name?”

 “K-O-W-A-L-S-K-I.”

I knew that Gwen was writing my pseudo name down. She continued to stammer, “Oh! I am certain that wouldn’t be my husband. You must be mistaken.” 

I said, “Is your radio call sign KSZ 757?”

“Yes, the radio is my son Bret’s.”

 I told her, “There is a $200 fine and confiscation of the deer for poaching. Your husband must bring the deer to the fire station in town for confiscation. Be sure he brings his checkbook.”

I was feeling a little regret, because as I hung up I could tell that Gwen was taking this very seriously. Within two minutes my conscience was pleading with me, like an angel on my shoulder, that I shouldn’t have scared Gwen so.

So, I immediately dialed Gwen back, but there was no answer. Apparently she had quickly hung up, jumped in the pickup and headed to the field to tell Richard. After another five minutes of my conscience prodding me, I called Bret’s wife, Kelly, and identified myself – as my true self. I told her to call her father-in-law on the radio and tell him it was a false alarm.

Apparently Gwen was on the combine with Richard, pouring out the story and rebuking Richard for his alleged transgression, which Richard knew nothing about. He was dumbfounded and didn’t understand why Gwen was climbing his frame. Richard and Bick hadn’t bagged a deer. They simply admired the size of the deer as it walked between the corn rows.

I learned several things that day. Farmers and their wives are salt of the earth people who try hard to obey the law. Sometimes farmers, or their wives, can be snookered into a story especially if the prankster sounds “official.”

I almost got away with being Sergeant Kowalski. I could have, if my conscience hadn’t gotten the best of me and made me confess to the hoax. I would have felt terrible if Sergeant Kowalski’s call had made divorce imminent.

But I wasn’t feeling guilty enough to swear off stirring up a little mischief in the neighborhood, now and then.

POSTSCRIPT – For years that family has called me Kowalski