Cranberry Red: A Novel

22. Farm Visit

The first visit Brittani scheduled for Ben on Tuesday morning was with Joe and Julie Evans. Brittani took special care to write down their names, their address, including their fire number, and how many miles from the office to their farm. Ben smiled when he read the entry. He had known the Evans family for many years; in fact, both Joe and Julie had attended the emergency meeting just last week. The freak hailstorm had struck the Evans farm, along with many other Ames County farmers. Ben drove the ten miles to their farm, which was located straight north of Willow River and just west of Link Lake. The Evans family was part of a group of farmers in the area called graziers, which meant they allowed their dairy herd to roam free in their carefully managed pastures. Ben chuckled when he thought about what they were doing. Grazing cattle was considered an alternative idea to the more standard practice these days of confining dairy cattle and hauling the feed to them. When Ben was growing up in Clark County everyone pastured their dairy cattle; it was the way it was done from May until October in that part of Wisconsin. Now grazing was considered a new idea. It seemed to Ben that so much these days amounted to revisiting the past, hanging a new label on it, and calling it new. As he neared Link Lake he began seeing the damage from the hailstorm , entire fields of corn ruined. The leaves stripped from the stalks, and sometimes the stalks, too, smashed to the ground. The trees growing along 92 Farm Visit 22 93 Farm Visit the road had lost most of their leaves, with the dry leaves, like in fall, accumulating on the sides of the highway. He pulled into the Evans driveway and got out of his car. Joe and Julie had two kids, Joey and Melissa, and they maintained a neat and tidy farmstead , keeping their lawn cut and their buildings painted. Ben noticed their vegetable garden. It had clearly taken a beating from the hail. He also wondered about damage to the buildings’ roofs and windows, a common result of hailstorms such as this. “Hello there, Ben,” Joe Evans called out. Ben had not seen him working near the barn. “Thanks for coming out.” Joe spoke slowly and deliberately , as if he had to think about each word before he spoke it. “Glad to do it, Joe. How are those kids of yours doing?” Ben knew that both of them had been enrolled in 4-H projects since they were nine years old. “Oh, they’re doing okay.” Joe paused for a moment. “Melissa is around here somewhere,” Joe said. He took a deep breath. “Joey is helping a neighbor today,” he continued slowly, looking down at his feet. “Melissa is sure upset about 4-H closing down.” “Yup, it’s gone, along with all the agricultural agent offices in the state. Dumb decision for the state legislature, but don’t get me into that,” Ben said. “Didn’t think 4-H would ever be eliminated. Just not right. Sure disappointing a lot of kids—mine included. No more 4-H at the fair either? That right?” Joe asked. “Afraid you’re right, Joe.” Just then Melissa Evans came from behind the barn. “Hi, Mr. Wesley,” she greeted him. Melissa wore bib overalls and her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. “Pa said you were stopping by this morning.” “How are your rabbits?” Ben inquired. Ben remembered that the twelve-year-old had bought a couple of rabbits with money she’d earned from selling produce at the farmers’ market in Willow River and had been raising them as a 4-H project. “Not so good,” the thin, well-tanned girl replied. Ben noticed that her bottom lip was quivering and tears were welling up in her eyes. “It was the hailstorm,” Melissa said, fighting back tears. “What happened?” asked Ben. “Both killed. Hailstones killed them. Let me show you.” Ben followed behind Melissa and her father to the now empty rabbit hutch with a little fenced area outside it. Melissa pointed to two little mounds of dirt, with a homemade wooden cross pushed into each of them. “I buried them there,” Melissa explained, her voice quivering. “Here is where I...