The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County

by Jerry Apps

  Ambrose heard his father yell before he had gotten halfway to the barn. Clarence never yelled; it was not his way. But now he was yelling, “Help, help,” in a way that sent shivers through Ambrose. He rushed to the barn as fast as he could and there saw his father in the bull pen, with big Fred, their Holstein herd bull, bellowing in a way he had never heard before and pawing at his father with his front feet and goring him in the side with his long, black horns.

  Ambrose grabbed a pitchfork and thrust it through the boards of the bullpen at Fred, drawing blood from the animal’s shoulder. Fred bellowed loudly, lifted his massive head, and looked at Ambrose with eyes that were red and menacing.

  “Get back,” Ambrose yelled as loudly as he could, thrusting the tines of the pitchfork into Fred’s massive neck, once more drawing blood. Fred backed away from Clarence’s prone body, but Clarence was not moving, not saying anything. Ambrose could see a stream of blood trickling from the side of his father’s mouth, and his right leg was twisted in a grotesque way.

  Ambrose pushed open the gate to the bull pen, thrusting the pitchfork at the enraged animal that had retreated to the back of the enclosure. With the pitchfork now in one hand and one eye on Fred, Ambrose grabbed his father by the shirt collar and pulled him out of the bull pen as Fred continued to paw with his front feet and bellow in a low, frightening way.

  Ambrose latched the gate on the bull pen, laid his father on some fresh straw, and ran to the house trying to yell to his mother what had happened. He was trying to tell her to help hitch up the team so they could take his father to the doctor, but she couldn’t understand him, so he began harnessing the team himself. When his mother arrived at the barn, together they gently placed Clarence in the back of the wagon on some fresh straw that Ambrose had put there. He galloped the team all the way to the doctor’s office in Link Lake, but his father was dead when they arrived.

  For the first month after his father’s death, Ambrose was completely lost. He did the chores around the farm, of course. Milked the cows, made sure they had something to eat, and tried to take care of the crops as best he could. The day after his father’s death, Ambrose contacted the livestock trucker and hauled away the killer herd bull that bellowed all the way into the truck and continued bellowing as the truck drove down the Adler drive and onto the country road that led away from their farm. Ambrose never forgot the sound of the enraged bull bellowing, and whenever he heard a sound like it, his thoughts immediately returned to that terrible day when his father died.

  Ambrose didn’t realize it at the time, but his mother’s grief was even worse than his. He was so caught up in his own misery that he didn’t at first recognize that his mother’s health was slipping downward and quickly. Six months after his father was killed, his mother died in her sleep. Neighbors said she must have died of a broken heart—Ambrose suspected they were close to the truth of the matter.

  Now Ambrose was on his own, with only the farm dog and his pet raccoon to keep him company. He had many decisions to make. For several months, he worked in a daze. He decided to sell the dairy cows and turn solely to growing and selling fresh vegetables at a little roadside stand near his farm. With the cows gone, he now had more time to do other things such as writing. He found writing down his thoughts therapeutic as he grieved the loss of his parents, and it was a lifestyle that had become quite comfortable for him.

  By 1971, Ambrose had a closet stuffed with notebooks, full of stories, memories, and tales of what it was like to be different from other people. After Gloria moved to California, she and Ambrose had stayed in touch, and he often included one of his stories along with his letters. Upon learning of the tragic deaths of Ambrose’s parents, Gloria wrote, “I don’t know what you’ll think of my suggestion, but it’s something for you to consider. You might find the idea interesting, even challenging, and it will surely help take your mind off all your troubles.”

  15

  Ambrose and Stony Field

  Ambrose,” Gloria wrote, “I think you should try publishing some of your writing. How about writing a weekly column? If you are interested, I will help you.”

  By this time, Gloria had advanced to the position of assistant editor at the Los Angeles Journal. “Why don’t you send me three or four sample columns?” she wrote. “I’ll polish them up a bit—if they need polishing— and we’ll publish them in our paper. I think our readers would enjoy reading about early farm life in the Midwest. And if it works out, we’ll offer your column to other papers in our syndicate.”

  Ambrose had never thought about publishing his writing; he had been quite satisfied with just doing it for himself, as his spirits always rose when he was writing. But now he seriously considered Gloria’s suggestion. He thought, It would be interesting to see some of my material in print, and see how others reacted to it. And what a thrill it would be to see some of my work in such a prestigious newspaper as the Los Angeles Journal.

  But like his father had always said, “Before you leap into something, it’s best to sleep on the idea first.” And that’s what Ambrose did. The next day he knew for sure—he was going to send several sample columns to Gloria and see what happened.

  Ambrose spent all morning writing and rewriting, typing on his old Remington manual typewriter that he’d gotten when he was in high school many years ago. He decided not to use his real name on his writing—and not reveal that he was a lowly dirt farmer in Ames County, Wisconsin, without a college degree and with a serious speech impediment. Who would read stories from such a person? Ambrose thought.

  But what name should he use? He looked out over the big field just west of his barn and saw the dreaded stones that had made tilling this field challenging and sometimes nearly impossible. The stones broke plow points, bent hay rakes, and one time destroyed his old McCormick hay mower. Then the obvious came to him. I will use the name Stony Field. Gloria had suggested using a simple title for the column, just a few catchy words. He didn’t know how catchy “Field Notes” would be, but he decided to run it by Gloria for her opinion.

  Ambrose had one request. With the sample columns he sent to her he wrote, “I hope you will abide by my wish to tell no one who Stony Field really is and where he lives—not even your bosses at the paper.” He put the package in an envelope and dropped it in the mail to Gloria.

  Gloria wrote back to say that she would keep Ambrose’s secret. She loved the title “Field Notes” and was ready to submit the column to her editors.

  That was the beginning of Ambrose’s writing career. In his first columns he wrote about farm life during the Depression years, and how his family had scraped and skimped to pay their taxes and other bills, and how even with all the misery caused by those dreadful years, his family had enough to eat and a roof over their heads, unlike those who lived in the big cities and lost their jobs and sometimes found themselves riding the rails in search of something to eat. He wrote about the drought that swept across much of the central and western states, wiping out farms, sending farm families packing in search of a place to live where the wind didn’t blow every day and where dust didn’t thicken the air so that people couldn’t breathe.

  He wrote about farm life during World War II and how farmers dealt with rationing and a shortage of labor as all able young men had gone off to fight in the war. He wrote about how the war had finally ended the long, agonizing Depression, and he wrote how ironic it was that killing people in war had resulted in saving people from starvation. Some things simply didn’t make sense, and this was one of them.

  Stony Field wrote about how farm life changed after World War II, how farmers now had tractors and electricity, milking machines and grain combines, indoor plumbing, and by the 1950s, television. He wrote how rural life changed dramatically during these postwar years as farms got ever larger, and the small family farm that had been the background of rural America for so many years began disappearing, and the young people who had desired to farm found they were no longer needed on the land and moved
to the cities to find work there.

  Soon newspapers across the country were picking up the Stony Field columns, as reader reaction, no matter where they lived, was increasingly positive. When Gloria asked Ambrose where she should send the money he had earned from his column writing, he told her to put it in a bank in Los Angeles, which is what she did. “Donate the money to environmental groups,” he had told her.

  After a few years of writing what some people called “nostalgia columns,” Stony Field began writing more edgy pieces—topics related to the environment and the need to protect it from the onslaughts of urban development, the lack of adequate soil and water conservation measures, and how to combat a general apathy toward environmental protection that seemed to sweep across the country starting in the 1980s.

  In one column, which he titled “Saving Souls or Saving Soil?,” he criticized fundamentalist churches for ignoring the problems of the environment. By now his column was running regularly in the Ames County Argus along with hundreds of daily and weekly newspapers across the country.

  One of the letters to the editor in response to the saving souls/soil column was from the Reverend Ridley Ralston, pastor of the Church of the Holy Redeemed, in Ambrose’s hometown of Link Lake.

  To the Editor:

  I have been a regular reader of Stony Field’s column. Having just read his recent one, I am compelled to comment. Mr. Field goes on at length writing about the need for soil conservation, but I believe he stepped over the line when he set up a contrast between saving souls and saving the soil. He should well know that saving souls must take precedence over all else. What is of most importance for true believers is having a place in Heaven. The soil is here for our earthly needs and has nothing whatsoever to do with our preparation for life after we leave this dreary, earthly existence. Stony Field is making some dangerous accusations with his anti-Christian message. We can do without this kind of information, and I would remind Stony Field that those of us who are God-fearing followers of the Word are watching him and his rather misguided musings.

  Signed,

  The Reverend Ridley Ralston

  Ambrose smiled when he read Reverend Ralston’s letter. He sat back in his chair and decided that he would write more columns that evoked some controversy—maybe this was one way to move people toward matters that were of vital importance to this country. Maybe through his writing he could once more get people to worry a bit about the environmental future of this good earth and not merely its economic future, to think a couple of generations into the future, and not worry so much about quarterly earnings and short-term predictions, and the gathering of ever more wealth, power, and material possessions, which seemed the goal of many people.

  As he reread the Reverend Ralston’s letter to the editor, he thought, It’s time to get people thinking and discussing what’s going on around them. Too many people rely on authority figures like the knowitall Pastor Ralston for their ideas and perspectives. It’s time I gave them something else to think about. It’s time to push people toward thinking for themselves rather than having other people do their thinking for them.

  Since Ambrose had begun writing “Field Notes” in 1971, he wrote many thousands of words about the importance of history and especially the importance of taking care of the environment. He had enjoyed doing this anonymously, with only Gloria Jones knowing who Stony Field really was. He liked that he was evoking conversation in coffee shops, in retirement centers, in taverns, and wherever people gathered. The beginning of such a conversation often began: “Did you happen to read Stony Field’s column this week?”

  Yes, he had enjoyed his anonymity. But now, with the village board poised to approve the opening of a sand mine in Increase Joseph Community Park, Ambrose Adler thought it might be time to let people know that this stuttering old farmer who seemed to be living in the shadows of the past wasn’t the person everyone believed him to be. Perhaps this was the time to let people know that Ambrose Adler was Stony Field and that he was mad as hell about the idea of a sand mine coming to town, and even madder that the village board would allow the cutting of the historic Trail Marker Oak.

  16

  Bank Robbery Reenactment

  People from as far away as Milwaukee and Green Bay came to Link Lake to witness the famous bank robbery reenactment that was sponsored by the Link Lake Historical Society. It was held the first Saturday in May each year at Increase Joseph Community Park. People from the community played the parts of those most directly involved in the incident, which without a doubt was the most exciting thing that ever happened in the Village of Link Lake since it was settled in 1852.

  Emily Higgins played the role of Abigail Johnson, proprietor of Johnson House, a stagecoach stop, tavern, and roadhouse that was now the Link Lake Supper Club. Oscar Anderson was One-Eyed Billy, a robber wanted in three states, and Fred Russo played his sidekick, Norman. Billy Baxter, Argus editor, played Marshal Jonas Gust.

  On the hillside overlooking the clearing, a hundred people or so sat on blankets and enjoyed their picnic dinners as they waited for the early evening event to begin. It was a clear, warm May day.

  A podium was set up under the giant Trail Marker Oak. A faded façade of the Link Lake State Bank was lashed to a tree to its right and a façade of Johnson House was tied to a tree to its left. Longtime announcer of the event Earl Wade of radio station WWRI, a balding middle-aged man who wore thick glasses, walked to the podium. Wade had a deep, easy-to-listen-to voice, and according to most people who listened to him on the radio, he looked not at all like he sounded.

  “Welcome everyone,” Wade began. “You are in for a thrill and at the same time you will learn just a bit more about this wonderful Link Lake community and its history.”

  In front of the Johnson House façade, four men sat at a table reading newspapers.

  “You see this?” one of the men said.

  “See what?” the second man asked.

  “This story about an increase in bank robberies in Wisconsin.”

  “Bank robberies, huh? Never happen here in Link Lake. Not enough money in our bank for a robber to take notice.”

  The group laughed as the crowd’s attention turned to a man on horseback who rode into the scene. The man wore a pearl-handled pistol on his belt and had a badge pinned to his shirt. He stopped his horse at the improvised hitching rail, climbed off, and tied his horse. He walked over to the four men sitting at the table, who looked up when he approached.

  “Howdy, Marshal, what can we do for you?” one of the men asked.

  “Well, it’s this way,” said Marshal Gust. “I don’t want to alarm anybody, but I just got a telegram from Oshkosh that a bank has been robbed there and the robbers were last seen headed west.”

  “Well, this would be west,” said one of the men at the table.

  “Ain’t enough money in the Link Lake State Bank for any robber worth his salt to care about. Don’t think we have much to worry about. But thanks for the warning, Marshal.”

  The marshal climbed back on his horse and rode off toward the village. The table and the four men disappeared behind the Johnson House façade, while a woman with a broom appeared in front of the roadhouse. She proceeded to sweep off the imaginary front steps and looked up to see two riders approaching, both rather poorly dressed and wearing pistols on their belts.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” said the taller man. “Name’s Billy, my partner here goes by Norman. We’re looking for a room and a meal. We at the right place?”

  “You bet you are,” said Abigail Johnson. “We got clean rooms and some of the best beefsteak you’ll find anywhere in this part of Wisconsin.”

  “Your steak from one of those skinny dairy cows we saw when we was ridin’ this way?” said the older man, who smiled broadly when he said it.

  “Nah, we don’t feed none of that skinny dairy cow steak—that all goes to them packing plants in Milwaukee. Here we serve the best beefsteak you can buy anywhere. I’ll bet my reputation on it.”<
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  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” said the tall man. “We’re lookin’ for work— heard there might be some call for a lumberjack or two in these parts.”

  Abigail laughed. “You boys are just about fifty years too late—the only lumberjacks left are those way up north, up there in the Hayward area— and maybe over toward Rhinelander. Might still find a few lumber camps there. But around here, well most of the folks are farmers and they’ve taken up milking cows. You boys know how to milk a cow?”

  The taller man laughed. “Well, we might look like cowboys, but milkin’ cows is one thing we don’t do. Wouldn’t be caught dead milkin’ one of them smelly cows.”

  “Well, bring your things in and we’ll get you checked into a room. Dining room’s still open—we’ll see if we can rustle you up something to eat.”

  “Mighty grateful, ma’am,” said the taller cowboy.

  Earl Wade picked up the microphone.

  “And now, as the sun sets over Link Lake and the first lamps are lit and people sit on their front porches, enjoying the cool breeze that rolls off the lake, people think how wonderful it is to live in such a quiet place where life is simple and the people are content and well satisfied. By 10:00 p.m. the lamps are blown out and the town is dark and it’s quiet, except for the call of a whip-poor-will that repeats its name over and over again, the sound echoing across the lake.”

  KABOOM! An explosion caused everyone in the audience to jump and look in the direction of the Link Lake State Bank façade. Smoke from the explosion drifted over the crowd, adding realism to the scene. Through the smoke, the audience saw two men, each carrying a bag, running toward their horses. They quickly climbed on their mounts, galloped past the podium, and disappeared on a trail that led farther into the woods of Increase Joseph Community Park.