by Jerry Apps
As he drove along, he was considering what it would be like living in this community for the next several months while he helped Alstage establish their sand mine, solve the logistical as well as the technical kinks associated with opening a new mine, and above all move a majority of the people toward accepting a sand mining company as a good citizen in their community, one that brought jobs and taxes to an area that needed an economic shot in the arm.
He pulled up to the motel, unloaded his belongings, cranked up the in-window air conditioner, and sprawled out on the bed. He read the Stony Field column and thought, Why can’t a guy like this keep his nose out of little communities like Link Lake, Wisconsin? What he’s managed to do is create a firestorm from what probably had been a few smoldering embers.
Karl woke up early the next morning, feeling refreshed and ready to face the challenges of a job that to many, including Emerson Evans (who would never admit it), was nearly impossible. When Karl first signed the contract with Alstage, and he and Evans talked about possible problems with some people in a community not accepting the mine, Evans said, “The only way to bring a new sand mine into a community is through sheer power. Line up the votes, spend money to discredit the opposition, and charge forward. Power backed by money always wins.”
But Evans knew Karl’s reputation for bringing together people in a community through persuasion and friendly contact, and Evans was willing to give Karl a chance to do what he was good at doing—to not try to push people into a decision that the majority did not accept. The company’s plan was to have Karl Adams live in Link Lake for a while before and during the early months of the mine’s operations. But as Karl thought about the Trail Marker Oak, he was more than a little miffed at Evans, who had not told him about this old tree and the community’s feelings toward it.
As Karl reflected on the Stony Field rant against sand mining, and the tremendous reaction he had evoked as evidenced by the hundreds of letters the Ames County Argus was receiving, he realized the Link Lake community had already been strong-armed and the camps for and against the mine had made their positions known. Karl was clearly starting in a deep hole.
He showered and dressed and drove the half mile or so from his motel to the Eat Well Café for breakfast. At 6:30 a.m. the place was about filled with customers, many of them fishermen, Karl assumed, and some of them old-timers who liked to get up in the morning for an early start on the day. The smell of bacon frying and coffee cooking filled the air. Karl saw a couple of older gentlemen sitting at a table toward the back of the little restaurant and decided to join them.
“You men mind if I join you? Place appears to be filled,” said Karl.
“Nah, pull up a chair. You new to town? Ain’t seen you around,” said one of the men.
“Name’s Adams,” Karl replied, “Karl Adams. And you are?” he asked, as he thrust out his hand to one of the men.
“I’m Oscar Anderson,” said the man closest to the window, as he shook Karl’s hand. Karl noticed that he had big, calloused hands and his handshake was firm.
“Fred Russo,” said the other gentleman, who also shook hands with him.
“Well, nice to meet both of you. I assume you both live here in Link Lake?” asked Karl.
“Nah, we’re retired farmers. Neither one of us could live here in town. Place is just too big, too many people, too much noise. We like it quiet. Away from all of the stuff that takes place in a town like this.”
Karl wondered what kind of “stuff ” Oscar was referring to.
“So what’s going on in Link Lake these days, besides the fishing looking pretty good out there on the lake?”
“Well, generally I could say, ‘not much,’ but I tell you things are heating up in little old Link Lake.”
“How so?” said Karl with a straight face, as he knew full well what he was about to hear.
“You ever hear of Stony Field?” asked Oscar Anderson.
“The environmental writer?”
“That’s the one. Well that Field guy hit a hornet’s nest when he took on the Link Lake Village Board and their decision to allow a sand mine in the park. He just made a bunch of people mad as hell.”
“So what do you guys think about a sand mine coming to the area?” asked Karl.
“Don’t much like the idea. I just can’t believe that stupid mayor, who has a ring in his nose and is led around by Marilyn Jones, steamrolled the village board into believing it was a good idea. Those guys on the village board—every damn one of them—they ain’t had an original thought since they was elected. They’re just stupid as hell.”
Karl looked up as Henrietta asked, “What can I get for you?”
“How about two eggs scrambled, whole wheat toast, and a cup of coffee.”
Henrietta scribbled some notes on her pad and disappeared.
“So Stony Field and the idea of a sand mine coming to town has got some folks riled up?” said Karl.
“That would be the understatement of the year,” said Oscar. “Ain’t seen folks, especially them of us who are members of the Link Lake Historical Society, so worked up about something—not since the movers and shakers tried to tear down the old depot and bring a fast food place to town. Historical society won the day on that one. That they did. Movers and shakers had egg on their faces.” Oscar took another drink of coffee.
Karl Adams took all of this in, listening carefully to every word, but trying not to show any reaction. When he finished his breakfast, he picked up the bill, walked to the cash register, and paid.
“Wonder what brings that fella to town?” Fred asked.
“Who knows, maybe he’s a poet coming to Link Lake to find something new to write about.”
“Oscar, he ain’t no damn poet. Poets don’t write about sand mines. They write about sunsets and pretty flowers and birds that sing in the night.”
24
Karl and Marilyn
After finishing his breakfast at the Eat Well Café, including writing down the names Oscar Anderson and Fred Russo and noting a summary of their comments about the upcoming sand mine, Karl Adams drove back to his motel. He punched in the number for the Link Lake Supper Club.
“Link Lake Supper Club, this is Marilyn.”
“Marilyn Jones?” asked Karl.
“Yes, this is Marilyn Jones. Who’s calling?”
“Karl Adams, with the Alstage Sand Mining Company.”
“Karl, good to hear from you. Emerson Evans said you’d be coming to town to help us launch our new sand mine.”
“Well, I’m here. Arrived yesterday. I’m staying at the Link Lake Motel. Any chance we could meet this morning?” he asked.
“Sure, come right over. We don’t open until eleven, so park in the back and take the door to the right, which leads to my office.”
“I’ll be there in a half hour,” said Karl. He punched the End Call button on his cell phone and put it back in his pocket. Next he sent an e-mail to Emerson Evans.
We’ve got big problems here in Link Lake. I’m not yet settled in—living in a motel until I find something better. I’ve been getting an earful from the citizens. It seems that our “friend” Stony Field is up to his old tricks. Somehow he got word of our plans to develop a sand mine here in Link Lake and wrote a column chastising the village board for deciding in our favor. The local newspaper received several hundred e-mails, most of them in opposition to the mine.
I had breakfast with a couple of old retired farmers this morning who seem to have a good take on what’s going on—and it’s not good. I’ll have my work cut out for me.
Why didn’t you tell me about Alstage’s plan to cut down an old oak tree in the park? It seems this single fact has more people steamed up than about anything else. Sure would have helped if I’d had that little piece of information.
I’ve got an appointment with Marilyn Jones; as you know she’s been the spark plug behind getting approval for the mine. I’ll be interested in her take on the situation.
The
sun was already high on this early June day as Karl drove toward the Link Lake Supper Club on a narrow road that fronted the lake. He saw a cluster of fishermen in the cove on which the supper club was located. Karl thought, I wish I was one of them. It would be a great day to do some fishing. I haven’t had a fishing pole in my hand since I got into this mining business. One of these days I’ve got to slow down a little, take some time to do the things I want to do rather than always doing what others want me to do.
As Karl drove into the empty parking lot of the Link Lake Supper Club, he admired the beautiful, log-sided, well-kept building and the flowers growing along the walk to the front door. He noted the wonderful location of the supper club. It appeared a whole wall of dining room windows looked out on the lake.
He drove around to the back of the building, where three vehicles were parked. He noticed two back doors; he walked to the door on the right and knocked.
“Come right in,” a friendly voice said.
Once inside and with a few pleasantries exchanged, Marilyn said, “I’m so pleased you’re here. I’ve heard of your reputation of bringing communities together—and boy does Link Lake need bringing together. I thought we’d gotten over the hump after the village board voted to approve the mine. But then this guy Stony Field, who writes that stupid column, has screwed up everything. Sure wish we could get ahold of him and straighten him out.”
“Well that’s not likely to happen—Stony Field has a great national reputation. Anything we would say in our defense will help fuel his fire,” said Karl.
“You’re probably right. But he sure has got people all excited around here, especially that damned Link Lake Historical Society—now there’s a bunch of busybodies with too much time on their hands. And that Emily Higgins, the old bat who runs the historical society, she is a piece of work. Got her long nose stuck in every piece of improvement this town tries to make. If everybody would listen to her, this town would be stuck so far in its past that nobody would have a job and all we’d do is run around and look at historical stuff.”
Karl Adams was listening carefully, trying to think of a strategy that might bring the community together once again. Something that would take their minds off the sand mine that wasn’t scheduled to open until October, which was five months from now.
“Perhaps I should talk to this Emily Higgins,” he said.
“Wouldn’t help. She’s got her mind made up and when her mind is made up it closes tight. No room for a new idea, not unless it helps the Link Lake Historical Society.”
“Think I’ll talk to her anyway. She might give me some clues about what I can do to bring folks together.”
“You found any housing yet?” asked Marilyn, changing the subject. “That old Link Lake Motel was built in 1950 and has made few improvements since.”
“Haven’t had time to look for another place,” replied Karl.
“I know about a neat little cabin right on the lake. One of the few that’s for rent. Here’s a phone number to call.” She wrote a number on a piece of paper.
Back once more at the motel, Karl called the number Marilyn had given him, reached Blue Waters Realty, and quickly arranged for a place to live. It was right on Link Lake and according to the realtor even had a dock with boat available for his use. Maybe I’ll have a chance to go fishing after all, thought Karl as he loaded his sparse belongings and headed toward his new home for the next several months—or until the sand mine was operating well and everything was back to normal in the community.
25
Vegetable Stand
Ambrose Adler smiled to himself when he thought about all the reaction he’d gotten from his recent Stony Field column chastising the Link Lake Village Board. He was hoping that somehow, in a small way, what he had written would change enough minds that the decision to open a sand mine in Increase Joseph Community Park could be overturned. But he also wondered again, should he reveal that he was really Stony Field? If he did, he knew it would trigger a tremendous amount of publicity—and he knew he would hate every minute of the attention. But it could have positive effects: the national attention just might help stop the sand mine.
As he set up his vegetable stand alongside the road that trailed by his farm, he also thought about how successful his little stand had become as an increasing number of townspeople as well as tourists in the area stopped to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Now, in early June, the strawberry crop was about ready, he had lush leaf lettuce, some of the best he’d grown in years, lots of broccoli, outstanding radishes, and in a week or so the first zucchini and green beans. People were listening to the national cry to buy locally: “See where your food is grown and try to avoid buying vegetables grown halfway around the country.”
But he also knew that the tourists in the area found it interesting to visit this old bearded and stuttering vegetable farmer who had a pet raccoon and talked to it.
When Ambrose had everything in order, he straightened the green faded sign that read Homegrown Vegetables. He took one last look to see that his early-crop vegetables were properly displayed, and then he sat down and opened the book he had with him, Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, a book that provided a foundation for much of his writing, and a book that seemed to be more profound every time he turned to it. Ranger rested in the shade of a nearby tree.
He had no more than opened the cover of the book when he saw the neighbor boy, Noah Drake, pedaling along the road on his bike. Noah was now twelve years old and he often stopped by Ambrose’s farm on his way to and from school. During the summer months, when school was out, he often pedaled over to Ambrose’s place just to talk with him and play with Ranger. Noah’s father, Lucas Drake, farmed his more-than-a-thousand acres just a half a mile west of Ambrose’s 160 acres.
Noah liked Ambrose Adler. The old farmer took time to talk with Noah, something that Noah’s father seldom took time to do. Ambrose would patiently listen while Noah shared what he was doing in school and what was happening on his farm. Noah had also become great friends with Ranger. Ambrose had taught Noah how to “talk” with Ranger—at least that’s what Noah believed he was doing when he fed the little animal treats and it cocked its head to the side and held out its paws.
“Hi, Ambrose,” Noah said as he rode up, climbed off his bike, and leaned it against the side of the vegetable stand.
“H . . . Hi, Noah,” said Ambrose.
“Got your vegetable stand up, I see.”
“Y . . . yup. Want a radish?”
“Sure,” said Noah as Ambrose handed him a couple of big, red, freshly pulled radishes.
“Where is Ranger?” inquired Noah as he bit into a big radish.
“B . . . back there,” said Ambrose as he pointed to a tree a few feet behind the vegetable stand, where Ranger was resting.
Noah walked over to the tree and the little raccoon, recognizing Noah, stood up and walked toward him.
“How are you, Ranger?” said Noah. “You doing okay?” The raccoon looked right at Noah and made a purring sound, its way of communicating.
“Got any treats for Ranger?” asked Noah.
Ambrose reached into his pocket and handed Noah a little treat, which he held in front of the little raccoon.
“What do you say, Ranger? Can you say ‘please’?” Noah said.
The little raccoon purred more loudly and held out its paws.
“Good enough,” said Noah as he handed the treat to Ranger.
“W . . . what’s new?” asked Ambrose as he watched Noah play with Ranger. I wish more kids were this interested in wild creatures, he thought.
“Pa’s pretty darn mad this morning,” said Noah.
“What about?”
“There’s this writer guy, Stony somebody. Pa says he’s the biggest and most stupid jerk that he’s ever known about. Pa says he is forever sticking his nose in the business of small towns. This Stony guy wrote about a town in Pennsylvania where they was doing something called fracking. I think that’s what Pa cal
led it. Anyway, this Stony guy wrote a story about that and got people out there all upset and wanting to stop the project.”
“Is that r . . . right?” said Ambrose, trying not to show any expression.
“And you know what got Pa really steamed up?”
“What?”
“The story Stony wrote about a sand mine coming here to Link Lake and how stupid it was of the village board to approve such a thing. When Pa read that piece in the paper I saw his face get red and he slammed the paper down and said a couple of swear words that he told me never to use. Pa was so mad.”
“R . . . really?”
“Yup, almost as mad as he was when this Stony guy wrote about how wrong it was for farmers to grow corn that was used for making ethanol. Boy that story made Pa almost as mad as the one about the sand mine coming to Link Lake. I suspect you know we grow 500 acres of corn on our farm, and most of it goes for making ethanol.”
“I knew you grew corn but not that much.”
“Yup, we grow lots of corn. Pa says without the ethanol market the price of corn would only be half of what it is now. Pa says he wishes, and he said some swear words, that this Stony guy could somehow be shut up.”
“R . . . really,” said Ambrose.
“Know what?”
“What?”
“Pa thinks somebody’s going to shoot Stony someday and shut him up for good.”
“Your pa said that?”