Cranberry Red: A Novel

6. Visiting Shotgun

21 Shotgun, now in his late seventies, invited Ben out to his place for a talk; he didn’t say what about. Not everyone got along with Shotgun Slogum; as he got older, he had become even more ornery. Those who knew him, especially his close neighbors, put up with him. However, Ben liked Shotgun and considered him both a friend and someone who just might have an approach to farming that might one day become popular again. Shotgun wanted to keep things small and manageable. He listened critically to those advocating new technology whether it was a new machine to harvest cranberries or a new insecticide to control pests on his vegetables. Repeatedly, he’d say “no” to something new. His neighbors, who managed much larger cranberry marshes, saw Shotgun as someone hopelessly lost in history. After Ben made a few routine phone calls, he hopped in his car and headed out to Shotgun’s place; it was about a twenty-minute drive from Willow River. Mid–June was a beautiful time in Ames County. Although the western part of the county, where Shotgun lived, was sandy, in June everything was green and growing. The potatoes were up and Ben saw the green corn rows poking through the yellowish brown sandy soil. He drove through one of the richest vegetable-growing areas in Wisconsin. Vegetable growers here planted hundreds of acres of these crops. When the rains quit coming, and that was usually the case by July, these farmers turned on their irrigation systems, and the crops remained lush. Visiting Shotgun 6 Ben heard the noise before he saw the small yellow airplane fly over the road in front of him, quickly drop down, and then, with its wheels but a few feet from the potato tops, turn on its sprayer. It flew to the end of the field and then with a loud roar of its engine quickly climbed to avoid a row of trees and power lines, banked sharply, descended, and began a return pass. It was surely an efficient, if somewhat costly, way to control insects and various diseases. Ben’s thoughts turned to his friend Shotgun Slogum. He remembered when he drove out to see him for the first time, now twenty years ago, along this same road. He had tried to follow Lars Olson’s directions, but still drove past the overgrown driveway where a rusty mailbox sat on a crooked wooden post with one faded black word, “Slogum,” painted on its side. Shotgun did not yet have the roadside stand. Ben remembered stopping, backing up, and driving along the snaky track that led to an unpainted house and other outbuildings planted in a little clearing. He remembered climbing out of his car, expecting any minute to see a big, growling farm dog racing toward him, ready to tear off his pants. But no dog appeared. No movement. No sounds at all. He had walked toward the house and around the side, because any country person knows you never approach the front door of a farm home. Farm people use their kitchen door; the front door was for show. He remembered that on that first visit, he’d heard, “Hello.” “Hello,” Ben replied. It was a rather high-pitched voice he’d heard. “Hello,” he heard again. “Screw you.” “What?” Ben said, surprised. “Your mother wears bloomers.” “Slogum? Amos Slogum?” Ben called out. “Hands up,” commanded the voice. Then a man appeared. He had long black hair and a black beard. “Whattya you want?” he said gruffly. “I’m . . . I’m Ben Wesley,” he blurted out, “your new agricultural agent.” “Why in hell didn’t you say so?” responded the heavyset man with deep blue eyes. “I’m Amos Slogum; everybody calls me Shotgun.” The man thrust out his big, rough hand to shake Ben’s. “See you got acquainted with Joe.” 22 Visiting Shotgun 23 Visiting Shotgun “Joe?” “Yeah, he’s my pet crow. Talks pretty fair, wouldn’t you say?” The big black crow flew down from its perch in an oak tree just beyond the kitchen, and landed on Shotgun’s arm. The bird looked at his master and then he looked at Ben. Ben remembered that day well. For some reason he and Shotgun Slogum had hit it off right away; over the years they developed a great respect for each other. Shotgun didn’t always...