How Forward-Facing Parking Saved the Patriarch’s Life

   If Doug Duren placed historical markers on his family’s Richland County farm, one would mark the car crash that killed his brother Matt in January 1995, and the other would show the log landing where a chainsaw nearly killed his father, Vince, in April 1991.

   Matt died near the farm’s driveway on state Highway 58, and Vince dodged death across the road from there, just past the unnamed creek that flows north toward Cazenovia. Doug points out both sites from the farmhouse uphill. Heck, he could easily throw a baseball to Matt’s site, and in his prime could bounce a good throw to Vince’s log landing.

   Ever since Vince’s chainsaw accident there, Doug can’t park anywhere without considering his dad’s close call. Vince served his community as a volunteer firefighter and fire chief, and started the area’s EMT service. To ensure he stayed ready to roll, Vince always backed into his parking spots, pointing his cars and trucks at the nearest road.

   Always.

   His kids did the same and still do. No questions asked. They nicknamed their father “Power,” after all.

Hunters and other visitors to Doug Duren’s farm in Richland County quickly learn to back their vehicles into parking spots; a silent tribute to the late Vince Duren, the family’s patriarch.   — Matthew Jefko photo

And nearly a decade after the Power died at age 92, Doug still uses sarcasm and rolling eyes to urge friends and visitors to show similar respect when parking at the farm to hunt or work. Most learn and quickly comply. By their second visit, they’re all backing in to park, pointing their vehicles nose out and ready.

   Besides paying tribute to Vince, nose-out parking also hedges against accidents, fatal or crippling. Farming and hazards share long histories. Tractors still upend on sidehills, machinery still gobbles arms and legs, rolled haybales still crush full-size men, and protective cows still squash owners who get between them and their calves.

   Vince constantly warned his six kids how fast farms can turn deadly, snapping his fingers for emphasis before warning, “Be ready for it!”

   But being ready is easier some days than others, and with some tools, too. When Doug picks up a chainsaw, he knows he’s holding dynamite once the chain starts flying around the bar. He can’t forget his father’s complacent moments at the log landing.

   “My dad was there to cut firewood,” Doug said. “He backed his truck up to some logs and parked with his nose facing the road. But after that, he did a lot of things wrong. He was by himself, he was in his mid-60s, it was late in the day, he was already tired, he wasn’t wearing safety gear, and he was using a bigger chainsaw than he needed. It was a 450 Homelite, the worst chainsaw ever made. It didn’t have a chain-brake or any other safety features, but it had a brand new, really sharp chain.

   “The logs were scattered everywhere, too little for lumber but OK for firewood,” Duren continued, “They were the butt-ends, all tangled up and lying close together. As Dad cut through one log, the chainsaw tip hit a log on the other side, and the saw kicked back. He was leaning forward a little too much, so he couldn’t control the kickback. The saw hit his chest and cut him stem to stern. It sliced his ribs and cut through his collar bone before the chain got snagged in his Carhart vest.

   “He dropped the saw and started doing his EMT checks. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and stuffs it into his wound. He’s in bad, bad trouble. He hops into his truck and drives himself with one arm to Cazenovia. He turns the corner into the center of town and walks into Doug’s Pub. He’s bleeding all over the floor and says, ‘Somebody get me an ambulance and a beer.’ Two guys at the bar are EMTs he helped train, so they call an ambulance and get him ready for the 12-mile drive to the Reedsburg hospital.”

   Doug pauses, anticipating that listeners won’t believe two EMTs just happened to be at the bar. “Remember, this is Caz, it’s 1991 and it’s rural Wisconsin,” Doug said. “Seven years earlier, when I was teaching school in New Hampshire, I bet everyone in the teachers’ lounge that I knew who was sitting at Doug’s Pub in Caz right now, at that moment. No one had cell phones in 1984, but those teachers got on a school phone and called the bar to fact-check me. We agreed I’d win the bet if two of the five people I named were at the bar. When they reached the fourth name, I won.

   “So anyway, the two EMTs get Dad into the ambulance, and the Reedsburg staff stabilizes him and loads him into a helicopter for Madison’s University Hospital,” Doug continued. “As they flew off, one of the EMTs was sure Dad was a dead man.

   “I was living in Door County by 1991, and so I started driving for Madison. When I arrived three hours later, he was out of surgery but still in the ICU. It’s now late at night, and the only one with Dad is my Uncle Ryne, Dad’s brother, the former New York Yankees pitcher. My uncle’s sitting there, glasses slid down his nose, cheating at a crossword puzzle, as usual. I look at him and ask, ‘Is he …’ and my uncle says, ‘Yeah, he’ll make it. He’s a tough ol’ bird.’

   “And so I walk over, put a hand on Dad’s hand and say, ‘Hey!’ He kind of grunts and looks up with one eye. He’s all groggy, but when he recognizes me, he doesn’t say a word. He just snaps his fingers on his other hand. I knew what he meant: ‘Stuff on a farm; it happens like that!’

   “My dad would’ve died if he hadn’t parked his truck facing out,” Doug continued. “That landing was an obstacle course of logs and firewood. He couldn’t have backed out of that mess with mirrors, and he couldn’t look over his shoulder. And thank god that truck had an automatic transmission. Standard transmissions were still common then, especially in trucks.”

   Meanwhile, sometime earlier that day before dark, Vince’s youngest kid, Matthew, drove down to the farm to retrieve whatever gear Vince left at the log landing. As Matt neared the fresh firewood and sawdust strips, he heard a familiar grumbling.

   That old 450 Homelite was still idling, its oily 2-cycle smoke wafting downwind, with frayed fabrics of Vince’s Carhart vest twisted through its teeth.