Tamarack River Ghost: A Novel

21. Yes or No to Factory Farms

122 Yes or No to Factory Farms 21 Josh Wittmore was working at his office computer when Bert Schmid stuck his head through the open door. He carried a copy of the latest issue of their paper, which had the Nathan West informational meeting story on the front page. “Looks like we got ourselves an issue,” said Bert. “You bet we do—and we should make the most of it,” said Josh as he turned from his computer to face his boss. “This story will give our paper a chance to tell folks what’s going on in agriculture and at the same time let them know a little more about this quiet river valley here in Ames County,” said Bert. “Sure wasn’t quiet the other night,” said Josh, smiling. “What’s next?” Bert asked. “Well, I’d like to visit one of Nathan West’s farms over in Iowa, see firsthand how they operate. Check on the smell. Talk with some of the locals to see what they think about having a big hog farm in their midst.” “That’s a good idea. You want me to set up something? I’ll call their head office in Dubuque.” “Appreciate it,” Josh said. A half hour later Bert was back in Josh’s office. “What a bunch of cautious people. They’re scared to death of animal rights activists. I had to convince them that you weren’t gonna do a hatchet job on them.” “Well, did you convince them enough so I can visit?” 123 Yes or No to Factory Farms “After three phone calls, I talked with one of their vice presidents, who finally agreed you could visit.” “So, when do I go?” “Not until March. The veep’s gonna set up a visit with what they call their 435 unit—they give each location a number. It’s near Decker, Iowa. By the way, Josh, here’s what we’ve gotten so far in our request for community contributions. I haven’t opened anything yet.” Josh returned to his office, sat down, and slit open the envelopes Bert had just handed him. The first contained several handwritten pages, a story titled “Horses I Have Known” by Clyde Emersol, with a Waupaca return address. Josh began reading: I grew up driving horses on the home farm back in the years of the Great Depression. The first team my pa had, he named Joe and George, Percheron horses they were. They were big horses, nearly a ton apiece. Pa often said they was the best team we’d ever had on the farm. Of course they was Pa’s horses. They didn’t like me much. Old Joe would try to bite me every chance he got. Mean horse, he was. And George was just plain lazy. Nothing worse than a lazy horse, to my way of thinking. But when I’d say that to Pa, he wouldn’t listen. He kept bragging up that pair of horses to everyone who’d listen. Josh chuckled occasionally as he continued reading, enjoying Emersol’s down-home way of writing. When he finished the piece, he decided to recommend they publish it—just the way it was, no editing, no correcting of grammatical errors. The next envelope he opened had no return address; the postmark was Link Lake. He found two neatly typed sheets of paper with a poem written on each of them. At the bottom of each were the initials “M.D.” He’d tried to think of someone around Link Lake with those initials and came up blank. But he’d been away for a decade, and he knew several new families 124 Yes or No to Factory Farms had moved into the community, maybe one of them had the initials M.D. He’d have to check the phone book. He read the first poem: Farms and Factories Factories make things. Ships and stoves and automobiles. Tables and chairs And fancy gadgets. Farms grow things. Vegetables and grains. Milk and pork. Lumber and beef steaks. Farms are not factories. They never were. They never will be. They never can be. Farms are of the land. The land that feeds us all. Factories produce the extras, Beyond what’s necessary for life. M.D. Josh read the poem a second time, then put the paper down and sat back. I’m not much of a...