Before Pearl Harbor halted the freezer business, Mickey had sold a few streets full of them. He made little profit on the freezers, but the buyers contracted to purchase prescribed amounts of specified cuts on a regular schedule—from Mister Mickey Weston.
The agreements had been valuable to Mickey. When shortages developed, the contracts with the meat-man were like gold to the customers, who were assured of the best cuts in the largest quantities Mickey could manage.
It was a peculiar business, not yet a black market, but certainly a little gray. Supplying fine meats for the rich circumvented the intent of price controls, but it was the way things were.
At least once each week, Mickey loaded his '34 Ford with frozen meat, meat stored in Newport's ice house where ice was actually made. During the first few months, he drove to Harrisburg and distributed to his customers. When fuel rationing tightened, Mickey traveled by train and delivered by handcart. His high wheeled cart could handle half a beef. Working at it, Mickey could deliver two beeves a day.
During the summer his great problem was to keep the meat frozen through delivery. His comforters and canvases were sometimes not enough, and meat packages oozed and were limp. He had no complaints; the beef, pork, ham, and lamb were too welcome.
Farming itself would have kept Mickey busy, because his father's aches were too severe for him to help much. The added work of controlling his cattle, butchering, freezing, and delivering was really immense. Mickey's nights were too short and each month ahead seemed a crisis not possible to surmount. It was fortunate that John had stuck with him.
Once, most farm families had a John who lived on the place and ate with the family. Johns had appeared during the depression years. They worked for lodging and whatever cash, old clothing, and tobacco the farmer cared to provide.
Most Johns left the farms for the high wages offered by defense industries. Mickey's man stayed on. Perhaps he was better treated or more fairly paid. (Mickey Weston did not forget his own lean years with Boyd Shaeffer at Boalsburg.) John took on the routines of milking, feeding, and dunging. He liked to run the machinery, which pleased Weston, who hated the mechanical end.
Mickey farmed the Dell place and his father's as one. Lately he had taken on most of the Ruby acres. With the boys gone to war and the girls married off, old man Ruby couldn't do it even if he had stayed sober enough to try.
Mickey Weston had more than he could handle properly and saw no relief in sight. He slumped wearily on the station platform, waiting the evening local. Men in uniform were most numerous and their presence made Mickey uneasy and irritable.
The truth was, he wanted to be one of them. The whole world seemed to be changing and here he was, sitting it out, plowing the same old furrows.
He knew what the soldiers and sailors thought of him: another 4F to be barely tolerated. A guy who somehow got deferred, who stayed home and dodged the war. Soldiers who returned every weekend and had never gone further than Baltimore strutted like fighting men and looked coldly at anyone not in uniform. Mickey flexed his bad knee, cursing it for the millionth time.
A train came in, packed solid as usual. With gas rationing, the railroads were running anything that would roll. It was ironic that the old Perry County Railroad hadn't held on just a few more years. With people commuting to defense jobs and farmers saving their fuel for tractors, the Perry line would have needed all their coaches.
An officer came through and servicemen saluted, some casually, a few with vigor. The Lieutenant's salute was professional and he had service ribbons on a breast.
Mickey's glance caught the officer's features and Mickey's heart about leaped from his chest. He felt his face beginning to split with his grin. Goose bumps jumped all over him and without an instant's hesitation he howled his best wolf howl. The Lieutenant's step jerked and before he could turn, Mickey ended with a shrill yip.
When Logan faced him, his smile was as wide as Mickey's. Despite the station's veiled astonishment, Logan got off a quick howl before burying Mickey's hand within his own.
They slapped backs and punched arms like boys. They kept saying how pleased each was to see the other.
Logan said he hadn't eaten and would die if he didn't. With an eye on the clock, they ducked into the Alva Restaurant. Logan got ready-wrapped sandwiches and they ran for the train.
They had to stand, but neither minded. Mickey ate one of Logan's sandwiches. Cinders and ash blew in on them and Logan swore the engine must be burning soft coal and wood. Mickey reminded him that there was a war on and the services got all the good stuff. Logan guessed the navy had it all because he hadn't seen any.
There were too many stories to tell and they had only gotten started by the time Mickey's Ford rattled into his side yard. Logan had only a B-4 bag. He snatched it and headed for home. Mickey heard the screen door slam, then Mary Dell's excited voice. Logan's pap rode home in a car pool and wouldn't arrive until after dark.
Mickey went in to tell his folks and to give Sis Ruby a call—Sis Weller, since she married. Later, he and Logan would go over and visit. With Bill Weller off to the fighting, Mickey made it a point not to visit alone. It wouldn't have seemed right. Not with the way he felt about Sis.
+++
On Logan's second day home, when they were in their old hide-out with the live snakes and remains of long abandoned rope swings, lean-tos, and firepits, Logan asked about Sis.
"What happened there, Mick? I thought sure you and Sis would marry up. Bart scare you off?"
Logan was dressed in the old things he had left at home, and in lots of ways it was as though he had never left.
Mickey could tell Logan things he hardly dared to face up to himself. Sis was one of them.
"Well, Logan, I just got my mind set on other things. When I went off to State College, back in '36, Sis and I were pretty close. But, hell, Logan, what did I have to offer?
"Anyway, I put my mind to studying and almost never got home. Bill Weller came along and ... well, they've been married a year now."
"Bill's a good man, Mick."
"True enough."
Logan changed their subject. "You've got a college degree. Man-o-man, Mickey, that IS doing something!
"I envy you that, Mick." Logan appeared somber. "I doubt I could ever get a degree."
Mickey thrilled at Logan's respect, but he guessed his friend's admiration was misplaced.
"Aw, Logan, going to college isn't anything. Most everybody who really tries gets through. I'm not saying the stuff I learned wasn't eye-opening, 'cause it was; just the things I learned about farming are going to pay off. I've told you about the meat business." Mickey grinned, "If the government doesn't shut me down, I'll make some bucks.
"Hell, Logan, compared to what you've been doing, college is nothing. My gosh, you're an army officer, just like old Major Clouser was. Now that IS something."
It was Logan's turn to correct his friend.
"Look, Mick, I'm an officer because the army is short of trained people.
"My God, it's almost a bad joke. I haven't fired a shot at anyone. My own man accidently shot me because he was dumber than the mule he rode. I got a Purple Heart out of it." Logan shook his head in disbelief.
"Mick, all I did was find a boat and make the rum soak who owned it sail to Australia."
Logan started to laugh. "In fact, Mickey, while I was strutting around Brisbane, letting enlisted people salute me, along comes rum soak, Captain Jones, and he's already commissioned a Lieutenant Senior Grade in the U.S. Navy—because of his knowledge of the Pacific, he says. Hell, Mick, I had to salute him. Rank is easy right now. It's just a matter of the right place at the right time."
Mickey wasn't so sure.
+++
Mickey Weston climbed off his tractor, his guts shaken into pudding and his rump cramped and achey from the steel seat.
Logan came from the barn, stripped to the waist, his body running sweat, with straw dust caking his head.
He pulled up sh
ort, fists planted on his hips, rocking aggressively on his toes. "Weston, show me a man who chooses farming and I'll show you a horse's ass!"
Mickey said, "Shut up, Logan. You've had the easy part. A real day's work would kill you."
Logan answered, "Well, I'm not finding out if you're right or not. I've just finished my last farming. The armed forces can starve and the Nazis can run the world, but I'm quitting farming—forever!"
He shifted gears. "Hey, let's go over to number one bridge and take a swim. Bet you haven't done that since high school."
Mickey said, "We'll have to wear bathing suits; people go there now."
"Maybe I'll leave mine off and take all the women for myself."
Mickey sneered. "Logan you tried that years ago and all they did was laugh."
Mickey blew water and stood erect. "Damned crick is shallower. Logan."
"We've grown, Mick."
"I haven't. The water is shallower."
"Dry year."
"Normal year, and don't argue; I'm the farmer."
They sat on the trestle waiting for the evening mosquitoes to arrive. Mickey got to dreaming a little.
"What I'd like to do, Logan, is to buy the Ruby place. Old man Ruby would sell in a minute if he got the right to live on the place until he died."
"God, Mick, that was a run-down old dump when we were kids. What would you want with a place like that?"
"It isn't the house, it's the land. Good land with a nice roll to it, deep topsoil and few stones. What I'd do is let pap Ruby use the house till it fell down or he died. Someday, the land will be valuable and worth maybe twice what I'd pay for it."
"Won't the bank go for a loan?"
"Banks demand collateral. What've I got to offer, Logan? This land is my father's."
"You said your meat business was turning a profit. How much do you need?"
Mickey shook his head. "Farms aren't that cheap. Even a run-down place like Ruby's will bring three thousand dollars."
"So, how much can you put up?"
Mickey sounded defensive. "I've banked a thousand, Logan. By fall I'll have another five hundred."
"You are half way home, Mick. A couple of years ago a thousand was a year's pay."
"Well, it's still a lot of money, which I haven't got."
They sat for a few minutes, Mickey lost in his farm dreaming and Logan making calculations.
"Wouldn't Ruby take less if he was allowed to live on the place?"
"Not much. Pap Ruby's a drunk but he's not stupid. Thing I'm afraid of is that someone else'll buy the place right out from under me."
"How about some sweetening, Mick? Free meat and eggs ... regular whiskey? Ought to be something that'd get to him."
Mickey sighed. "Nothing I can see and I guess his boys send him some money now and then. They're all in the army. Sis will keep him in food and see that he's got a shirt to wear. No hope there."
Logan was decisive. He hopped to his feet and waved away an early mosquito. "Ok, then, Mickey. There's only one way left.
"Get up and I'll lay it out for you on the way home."
They walked swiftly, Mickey limping just a little until his knee got loosened. Logan said, "You've got to take on a partner."
His friend snorted.
"You need a man who has some money and is willing to risk it. He's got to be the kind that won't interfere or start demanding a pay-off or interest or something."
Mickey snickered but Logan ignored him. "You'll have to keep control of the deal, Mick, or your partner might end up with the place. That means you've got to put up a little more than half the price."
"Sure, those kinds of guys are all over the county, but name a few so that I can start weeding out till I get just the right man."
Logan's voice was softer. "I can name you one, Mick. You can trust him and he's got enough."
Logan sounded as though he meant it, but Mickey couldn't think of anyone.
"Give me a name, Logan."
"Logan Dell. Only man I can think of who meets all of the qualifications."
Mickey Weston halted. He hoped his astonishment didn't show. Logan? He had never thought of Logan as having money—or for that matter, being interested in investing in a farm.
Before Mickey could speak, Logan pulled him into motion. "Now look, Mick. I've always put a little away. I even saved a few dollars a month when I was a Private. Hell, I don't smoke and a beer is my limit. What else does a soldier need money for?
"Anyway, I saved up more than six hundred dollars.
When I got off the boat in Australia the army owed me six months back pay. As a Buck Sergeant, overseas, that came to about four hundred and fifty.
"A Second Lieutenant makes more than I can spend, Mick. I've already banked more than ... well, the hell with all that. I can just about come up with my half of the three thousand."
In his intensity, Logan was making them hustle down the road and he wasn't finished talking. "You buy the farm. Draw it up so that I've got fifteen hundred invested. If you sell out, pay me a fair interest. Until then, the money will stay invested in the land, just as though it was in the bank. Hell, Mick, no way we can lose on it."
They walked in silence until Logan asked in exasperation, "Damn it, Weston, do you like the idea or not?"
Startled from his reverie, Mickey answered, "Of course I like it, Logan. Why wouldn't I?
"I just can't see why you'd trust your money with me. Suppose...."
"Look, Mick, you like farming, it's what you do. You have a college degree that says you know how to do it. Why should you fail?
"Anyway, we're friends. You need some bucks and I've got 'em. You can have 'em and we'll be in this together."
Mickey thought some more. "That's fine, Logan, but you're not getting a fair shake. I'll end up with profit from the farming and someday I'll sell out for a real increase. All you'll get is bank interest. It's got to be fairer than that."
"It's all a bank would give, Mick. So it's fair."
"I'm not a bank, so it isn't fair."
They walked on, not talking, watching their footing among the horse droppings.
"Ok, Logan, here's what we'll do. We'll be partners on the land. It'll go up in value and half will be yours. I say when we sell, or if we sell. Seeing I work the place, I get the farm profits as well as the expenses.
When pap Ruby is gone we'll rent the house, if we can, and split any profits—though just repairing will likely eat up that money.
"Now, how does that sound?"
"Fair enough, Mick, with one question. What happens if land goes down in value? Do I get less money then?"
"It won't go down, Logan."
"But what if it does?"
"It won't." Mickey began whistling, thinking about how he'd put in field drains and cut back trees around the field edges.
Logan said, "Dang it, Mickey, what if...."
+++
1942
On his second Saturday home, Logan accompanied Mickey on his meat distribution. Their operation was a succession of swapped insults and physical competition.
Mickey suggested Logan was so sun blackened that he'd be asked to shine shoes. So, at the first house, Logan stood around rubbing his head and saying, "Yassah, Mistah Weston, Sah."
If Mickey carried one ham, Logan picked up two, claiming it was nothing for a real man. If Mickey struggled with a pair, Logan took the lightest he could find and explained that only an ox broke his back to save a trip.
It was like their earlier days and the work went easily.
They lunched on the unmown grass between Front Street and the Susquehanna, chomping on their thick home-baked bread and meat sandwiches.
Logan munched in mouth-filling gusto and swilled at a root beer. He groaned satisfaction. "Nobody makes food like a Perry Countian, Mick. Some of the army stuff I've forced down, you wouldn't feed a hog."
"You're right, Logan. Even as little as I've seen, it's plain our cookin' is superior. Boyd Shaeffer, up at Bo
alsburg, served some weird concoctions and I've eaten with customers along here who gave me food I couldn't name. Ever hear of goulash? That was one."
"Sounds good, compared to baked monkey."
"You claiming the army fed you monkey?"
"Nope, I'm saying I ate it while doin' army duty on Luzon." Logan shuddered, "Came in whole and looked so much like a human baby it soured your guts."
"You ate it?"
"Of course, I ate it. I was out making good will, not insulting people. I suppose being from Juniata County, you've eaten worse stuff anyway."
Mickey moaned, "Logan, I left there when I was ten. You don't have to be born in a place to belong. In fact, you've been gone so long some would doubt you're a real Perry Countian. You talk too fast and you eat monkeys, probably snakes and rats, too, if you'd admit it."
Logan snorted, "Fact is, I've tried both, Weston."
Mickey appeared disbelieving, but Logan went on. "Don't think I didn't hear you using "superior" and "concoctions" just a minute ago. You college people are always talking so us common folks can't understand."
An army truck with khaki-clad troops lining the seats rumbled down Front Street. A voice yelled, "4F's!" and other voices hooted before the truck was gone.
Mickey was quiet, and Logan felt his wound. "Shows what those Indiantown Gap heroes know, Mick. Don't take it to heart. They're all draftees and they'd trade places with you in a minute."
"I'd swap with them in a minute, Logan." Mickey sounded a little desperate. "Not going leaves me feeling guilty, as though I was letting the country down."
Logan was disdainful. "Hell, Mick, you're an educated man. You know we've got to have good people raising crops and running things here. Your common sense tells you that what a bunch on a truck yells is almost certain to be as wrong as it is mean. Nuts to them, buddy. You know you'd be in uniform if they'd let you, and that's all that counts."
The words were true. They both knew that, but words couldn't help much. Men not a part of the war were going to feel left out. It went with being a man.
Cronies (Perry County) Page 7