Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

I enjoyed sitting alone in the diner on late Sunday afternoons. I used this time to make notes about any number of issues I expected to deal with during the upcoming week. I did the same thing earlier in life during my time in service to various greedy capitalist movers and shakers. I possessed two speeds, so I’ve been told, on and off. When I’m off, I can overlook most of the crap that seems to pile up along side life’s highways. But when I’m on, well then I’ve been told I’m down right super anal. I need to know every detail relating to whatever I’m involved with. Nothing is too insignificant. I don’t like surprises, and that’s why I try to anticipate events having even the slightest potential of materializing. This can take a lot of time, and more often than not, my attempt to envision the future often turns out wrong. But when I’m right, I feel vindicated for all the other times I erred.

  This time, though, something felt different. My thoughts traveled miles away from the diner’s business. Matters regarding the operation of the diner fell into place quickly following the introduction of a few Business 101 fundamentals, along with a little common sense. What I concerned myself with presently involved something else entirely.

  What in the hell was I going to do about that brazenly rude Mary June Jangles? Why the nerve of that woman. Flipping me the bird? I had to do something, but what? Chase her down and give her the bird back? I had used that exact tactic once before while in high school. As I recall, it didn’t work. The recipient of my middle finger gesture of displeasure, a young lady, had summarily informed me that my steady company no longer interested her as she’d received a better offer from a young stud with a cool car. She subsequently told her new boyfriend, a football player and a car owner, about my middle finger salute, and he chased me down and beat the crap out of me.

  Guess I ought to mark that one off the list right up front, I reminded myself as I sat there hoping for a solution. As I coaxed my brain trust towards solving this dilemma, a familiar looking pickup truck pulled into the vacant diner parking lot. This served no purpose unless someone wanted to turn around because neither of Junior Junior’s gas or food dispensing businesses was open on Sundays. If someone wanted gas they needed to drive the half-mile back down the street to the quick shop that sold gas every day of the week.

  It’s Preacher Roy’s truck, I told myself as my view of the vehicle improved. I looked at my watch and saw it was 1:45 p.m. I wondered what he wanted in town since nothing opened on Sunday except the quick shop and the town supermarket. My curiosity increased while I watched him pull directly up to the diner just like he did that first night. Not hesitating, he turned off the engine, exited the truck, and came straight up to the closest front diner window and bent forward to get a better look inside the darkened interior. After squinting to get a better look, he saw me sitting alone in a booth with pen in hand making notes. Smiling upon seeing me looking back at him, he motioned for me to go to the diner door. I didn’t have time to respond before the Preacher turned and headed in that direction.

  “Afternoon, Preacher, surprised to see you in town today. Anything I can help you with?” As I spoke, Preacher Roy squeezed past me in the open doorway to get fully inside the diner.

  “Don’t need a thing,” he responded. “Just thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing. Junior Junior told me you often spend time at the diner on Sunday afternoons. So… how are you doing?”

  I turned to face the Preacher as he in turn went directly to the booth where my papers lay strewn atop the table and took a seat.

  “Oh, I’m doing all right, I suppose. At least the management hasn’t told me I’m doing anything wrong,” I jokingly commented as I joined the Preacher at the booth.

  Preacher Roy smiled. “That’s great news, Will. I knew this job would be just the thing you were looking for. Why everybody in the whole town’s talking about the amazing transformation that’s occurred here in the last month. They’re all beholden to you for all you’ve done. I’ve been trying to get in to visit with you, but I’ve been so doggone busy that I haven’t had the time.”

  “I knew you would get by one of these days, Preacher Roy. I expect you have been busy trying to get back to normal after that huge harvest?” I’d heard the Preacher stayed busy hauling wheat to the local grain elevator trying to lock in a price.

  “Actually, I’ve been hauling wheat to the grain elevator about every day. If I’d known I’d be selling this soon, I’d have taken it directly from the field to the elevator. Only reason I didn’t in the first place was because you can end up sitting in line for hours to unload. And this year was the biggest crop on record. It was also the most expensive crop on record. Gas was the main culprit, but I feel lucky my old combine held up for another year. I fear the day when it breaks down for good, and I have to start hiring custom cutters. The prices they charged this year skyrocketed and when you include the cost of fertilizer and fuel, it’s hard for a lot of folks to make any money. If you are renting land, it’s even worse.” The Preacher wiped his brow using an oversized handkerchief as if talking about the increased farming costs made him weary.

  “I hope I’m not the only one who got paid this year,” I commented as I watched him replace his bandana in the pocket of his bib overalls.

  “Oh no! I did okay. I got smart when the price of wheat got close to ten dollars last winter and forward contracted half my acreage. Sure made me look smart when the market came down to six dollars and change this summer. No, I did all right. The way prices are going down it won’t be long before it will be smarter to take my land out of production and get paid by the government to let it sit.”

  I knew that would not be happening if the Preacher thought he stood to somehow come out ahead farming the land. I hated to think what might happen to this good man if farming no longer was an option. I believed every time corporate farming caused a few more hardworking farmers to give up and sell out, the worse off we became as a nation. This country began as an agrarian society. Most of the founders of this once great country were men of the soil. The further away our citizens moved from those roots, the less viable we became as an economic entity.

  There is a disturbing irony in the realization that we, originally a nation of farmers, abandoned the land and the once thriving rural communities for a supposedly more prosperous and easier life working in factories in the cities and suburbs— only to find ourselves now abandoned by those factories as they departed the USA for cheap foreign labor. Many of those farms are now owned by large corporations that have no need for millions of ex-factory workers or even the current farm workers.

  What will these millions of displaced workers do? Where will they live, and where will they work to support their families? We are no longer an agrarian society, and we soon will no longer be a manufacturing society. What’s next, the service sector? But those workers exist to provide services for the people who work the land or for the workers who manufacture the hard goods, which creates real wealth for a society.

  Are we to end up as the ancient Romans did where most of the citizens performed no productive work and were provided for by massive armies trampling the world stealing from subjugated countries in order to feed and entertain the idle masses? Is that it? Are we to use this massive military we possess, based in more than a thousand installations around the globe, for the purpose of stealing from other hardworking societies so that the citizens of this country can be fed? What about the necessity of keeping those now excess and idle workers, plus their families, occupied when not eating food they did not produce? Will games be provided constantly in giant stadiums or on television or will the two major political parties that equally promote our nation’s pillaging and plundering of the world take turns inciting their constituents to go to the streets to protest the incompetence and lack of patriotism or the ungodliness of an opposition party that in reality is but a clone of the other party? Is this how it will turn out in one, five, ten, or fifty years?

  My thoughts finally drifted back to the Preacher who likewise se
emed self-absorbed. “Aren’t land prices going up though?” I asked him. I couldn’t help but overhear some of the farmers’ daily talk about that one good point while they sat for hours chatting at the diner.

  “Well, that is a fact, oddly enough,” answered Preacher Roy with a quizzical tone in his voice. “But when you find out what’s driving the prices upward you have to wonder how it’s going to help out in the long run.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, eager for more information.

  “It’s not the farming interests that are driving the prices of farm land upward. Not even the corporate farms are interested in land at these prices,” answered Preacher Roy.

  “Who is?” I asked hurriedly.

  “I hear it’s the investors fleeing the crazy stock market. Plus, some foreign money is also coming into play. I guess a thirty to forty percent drop in the market will cause just about anybody to start seeking alternatives. Like they say, there is only so much land and when everything else is going south, land starts looking good.”

  “You mean the crops they grow will not allow the venture to cash flow?” I asked.

  “Oh heck no! No way! Grain prices are going down and the cost of production is going up daily. They will most likely rent the land back to the farmer who sold it for a nominal amount allowing him to make a small profit, hopefully. This is going to be a long term affair, and those who bought in early might decide to take some profit from the stragglers who will be getting into the farm land market late. I even gave selling some thought myself, but I would be lost without my farm. I don’t know what I would do if something happened so that I couldn’t be a farmer no more.” Having said this, Preacher Roy got a distant look in his eyes as he peered through the large glass window towards the horizon.

  “You own your land outright, don’t you?” I asked, thinking he might have already told me he did.

  “Absolutely! My father inherited the land from his father, who, in turn, inherited it from his father. They fought to survive during the ‘Dirty Thirties’ when the Depression and the Dust Bowl era drove many good folks from the farms. My family hung on for all they were worth. There has never been a note held on the property since my great-grandfather bought it in 1935. I’m the fourth generation to farm here. Only thing is, I don’t have a son to pass it along to, so if either of my two daughters and their husbands don’t decide to come out here and take over in a few more years, it looks like it will go to a new family of farmers. There ain’t no way I will sell out to the big corporations. Somehow I aim to get somebody who is not afraid of hard work to carry on the tradition of the family farm.” Once again, Preacher Roy looked away towards the street. I sensed the uncertainty Preacher Roy must be feeling at that moment. Would anyone have enough gumption to step up someday and take over his life’s work? Would they also devote their life to ensuring multi-national agricultural conglomerates never got their hands on his family’s life’s work?

  I didn’t know where to take the conversation from this point, so I decided to wait for Preacher Roy to expose his hand. I knew he was not the kind of person to drop by without something specific in mind. A reason existed for his visit beyond the excuse that he wanted to see how I was getting along.

  “You know Will, I ain’t getting any younger,” said my suddenly pensive booth companion. Here it comes, I told myself. Get ready.

  “Do you worry about old age, Will? I mean you seem comfortable roaming around not appearing to worry about the future or getting old and frail. I’ve been giving that some thought of late. I mean what if I get sick or hurt before I get old enough to qualify for Medicare? That’s over ten years off. Like most of the people in the area that don’t have a job with the government or some big company, I ain’t got any health insurance to speak of, excepting some major medical that still leaves me and the wife with a lot to worry about. I mean all I got is this land which is worth a small fortune right now, but that will change next month or next year. If I did up and sell it, what would I do with the money? Buy stocks that I don’t know anything about so I can lose my life savings like millions of others? Or just put it in a suitcase and bury it out behind the barn. What do you think, Will?”

  I didn’t know where to start. My first inclination told me to tell him I had not the slightest idea. I’d renounced all my accumulated wealth years ago. I had up and walked away from years of saving up for the future or a rainy day. At the time, it seemed a great burden to me. I spent all my time guarding my accumulated wealth. Not a day went by when I wasn’t checking my stock portfolio or bond portfolio or real estate portfolio or my market guru’s portfolio or comparing it to some television financial expert’s hypothetical portfolio. Eventually, I developed portfolio-sis. I finally realized I did not own all that stuff, but rather, it owned me. I’d devoted most of my early adult life to concocting ways to get, protect, and admire wealth. All thoughts about happiness, decency, family, and community relationships were dismissed outright. That’s the way it had to be if I wanted to be somebody.

  I eventually decided on one thing I felt safe telling the Preacher. “Preacher Roy, I’m going to be succinct. Right now, don’t do anything. You may have issues, but basically, you are still in better shape than the vast majority of people who call themselves citizens of the richest country in the world. Pardon my French, but I fear a real shit storm is in store for this country in the not too distant future. It may very well be that few investments will hold their value in the coming years other than assets such as farmland, mineral resources, and the basic craft and survival skills. I would urge you not to contemplate making a career change while this ax is held over our collective heads.”

  Preacher Roy’s weary expression changed immediately. A knowing smile appeared upon his sun darkened and weatherworn face. “You know,” he said, “you better watch out. People around here are starting to think differently of you. You keep it up and you’ll end up mayor or county commissioner or even something bigger, even though you are one of those Democrats.”

  Still chuckling, Preacher Roy got up from the table and headed for the door. I felt sort of odd having been abandoned all of a sudden. Barely hesitating as he reached the unlocked front entrance, he briefly turned to give a nod back towards the booth. He gave another chuckle and headed through the door to his truck. Half a minute later, he pulled his truck on to the street and headed out of town.

  Well, that was interesting, I thought as I watched Preacher Roy’s truck disappear from sight. Where was I? I pondered while turning back to the pile of notes strewn before me. At the very top of the pile, a lone blank piece of paper contained the initials MJJ along with a big question mark.

  I quickly realized this burning issue required more intelligent thought before a plan could be devised. I needed to let this matter gestate. There was no need to hurry since I did not plan to go anywhere. From what I saw and heard neither were most of the other denizens of this fading farm community.

  Chapter Eight