by Jerry Apps
64
Memorial Service
Back in the spring, when the doctor told Ambrose his heart wasn’t near as strong as it once was, he had penned a letter to Gloria:
My Dear Gloria,
I’ve just returned from the doctor, who told me my old ticker isn’t up to par, and that I should slow down a bit. You know me; I’m not too keen on slowing down. But nonetheless, I thought that if something should happen to me, and I’m not planning on it, here is how things should be taken care of. I do not want a church service of any kind. I never set foot in a church and to do so when I’m dead wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense. But it would be nice, if people were so inclined, to hold a memorial service at the Increase Joseph Community Park, in front of the Trail Marker Oak. And again, if it is not too much trouble, I’d like to have my ashes spread beneath that old tree. As much as your folks disliked me, I know how much they loved that old tree, as I do. I sincerely hope it outlives all of us.
Fondly,
Ambrose
Gloria and Karl set a date for a memorial service a week following his death, at the park and in front of the Trail Marker Oak. Gloria traveled to Willow River, met Billy Baxter, and asked him to put a note in the Ames County Argus about the event. She also sent an e-mail message to her own newspaper, the Los Angeles Journal, to mention the service. She asked Karl to let the people at the Alstage Sand Mining Company know that a memorial service would be held at the park, and the camouflaged guards with the automatic weapons should fade into the background during the service. Karl contacted Emerson Evans directly, and Evans reluctantly agreed. “But,” he said, “I’m not very happy about having a memorial service at our mine site for the fellow that gave us the most grief about even having a mine there.”
Karl explained that it was Ambrose Adler’s last request, and the whole thing would be over in an hour or so. The service was scheduled for the last Sunday in September. It was likely one of the last events to be held in the park before the mine commenced operations on October 15.
Gloria and Karl expected a large crowd, but nothing of the order that turned out for the event. Five deputies from the sheriff ’s department plus a couple of state patrol officers and the entire contingent of Link Lake officers (two) were pressed into duty to direct traffic and, along with volunteers, park cars at the Link Lake High School. School buses and drivers were organized to transport people to and from the park site. Of course most of the media from across the country were still in Link Lake, which swelled the crowd and somewhat unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, representatives from almost all of the major environmental groups arrived in Link Lake to pay their respects to the one person who likely did more in his tenure as Stony Field, environmental writer, than any other single person in recent history to advance the cause of environmental protection. Gloria had met many of these people, as they knew she was Stony Field’s editor. She recognized people from the Sierra Club, the National Wildlife Association, the National Audubon Club, the Nature Conservancy, and several more. None of them knew that her relationship with Stony Field was much deeper than editing his weekly columns.
Emily Higgins enlisted Earl Wade as emcee for the service. Wade walked up to the microphone and looked out over the crowd, which a state patrol officer who had helped with many large events had told him numbered well over a thousand people.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wade began. “On this beautiful September day, when the maple leaves are just beginning to show color, and the waters of Link Lake are as blue as the sky above, we gather here to honor one of our own—Ambrose Adler—farmer, lover of wildlife, advocate of living life simply, and . . . and much to the surprise of all of us, a brilliant writer with legions of readers in this country and well beyond.” Wade stopped for a moment and looked out over the lake.
“This is the kind of day that Ambrose Adler loved. He took time to enjoy the seasonal changes, to marvel at nature’s splendor, to appreciate the beauty of the land, and at the same time he helped us remember how we are all tied to it. As he often said in his writing, ‘We are people of the land.’ How fitting it is that we take time from our busy lives to pay respects to this great man on such a beautiful day.”
Wade adjusted his glasses and looked down at his notes. “Several people have agreed to say a few words about Ambrose.” Folding chairs were lined up in front of the podium for those who had agreed to speak at the event.
“We’ll start with Emily Higgins, president of our Link Lake Historical Society.”
Slowly Emily made her way to the podium. She took a deep breath, looked out over the crowd, and began.
“I’ve known Ambrose Adler longer than anyone in this audience,” she began. “Ambrose was often shunned by people in these parts. Shunned because people thought he was different. Shunned because he never troubled to hook up to electricity or learn how to drive a car. But mostly he was shunned because he stuttered, and because he couldn’t speak well, people thought he had little to say. He sure fooled us, myself included. Who would have thought that my old farmer friend who lived so frugally, bothered no one, and put up with being a curiosity in this town all these years was the brilliant writer Stony Field? I guess he showed us—especially those who dismissed Ambrose Adler, ignored him, and sometimes even made fun of him—that everyone can make a contribution to society. Hats off to you, Ambrose Adler. You will not be forgotten.”
The next speaker, introduced as Rex Oakley, a representative from the Nature Conservancy, took the microphone. He was tall, much taller than Emily Higgins. He adjusted the microphone and began.
“Who imagined that Stony Field had such humble beginnings and lived such a simple, uncluttered life? I for one thought that Stony Field was a college professor working on some campus in this great country, perhaps in a department of environmental studies, but no, here we have a true man of the soil. A man with limited formal education but with vast knowledge. Ambrose Adler lived his entire life connected to the land. He worked the land, but the land also worked him, for his writing clearly showed that he continued to learn, that he continued to gain new insights about nature and his relationship to it throughout his entire life.”
Oakley continued, “I place Ambrose Adler in the company of other great lovers of nature with roots in Wisconsin: John Muir, Sigrud Olson, Wakelin McNeil, Gaylord Nelson, and of course Aldo Leopold. Ambrose, Stony Field, you are in good company.”
Other speakers followed, each with another take on the tremendous contributions he, both as Ambrose Adler and as Stony Field, had made during his lifetime. No one from the Eagle Party attended the event, nor did anyone from the Link Lake Economic Development Council, including its president, Marilyn Jones, even though Gloria had hoped that she would come. When someone asked Lucas Drake if he was coming to the memorial service, he said, “Are you kidding? At last we’re rid of that damned Stony Field and his socialistic writing.”
Earlier in the week, when Emily Higgins saw Noah Drake riding his bike past the historical society headquarters on his way home from school, she had told him about the memorial service and asked him if he would read the last column that Stony Field was working on, the one he had not completed before he died. Gloria and Karl had found the draft copy on his desk, next to his old Remington typewriter that was so worn that several of the keys were bare.
“Pa said I should never see Ambrose Adler again,” said Noah Drake when Emily Higgins asked him to speak. “But now that he’s dead . . .” Noah hesitated, choking back tears. “I’ll do it,” he said.
After Earl Wade’s brief introduction, Noah, but twelve years old, walked up to the podium. Wade adjusted the microphone for him and whispered, “Talk right into the mike.”
Noah looked out over the vast audience. He had never seen this many people in one place before and for a moment he felt like turning around and running. He felt his hands shaking and his mouth go dry. In a quiet voice he said, “My name is Noah Drake. Ambrose Adler was my neighbor and my friend. He listened
to me when I told him my troubles. He let me play with his pet raccoon. He didn’t speak real good. But that didn’t matter. He was like a second father to me. He . . .” Noah couldn’t finish the sentence. He paused for a moment, trying to gain his composure.
“I’ve got the last column Ambrose Adler wrote. It’s not finished. Miss Higgins asked me to read it, and I will.” Noah’s voice now got stronger. He read:
FIELD NOTES
Trail Marker Oak a Symbol
By Stony Field
The little village of Link Lake in central Wisconsin has torn itself apart these past few months as it debated and then protested a decision made by its village officials to allow a sand mine to open in its cherished village park. It’s a debate that has occurred often in this country: what is more important? Economic development, or history and the environment? And why not all three of equal importance?
The debate in Link Lake has centered on an old bur oak tree. The mining company insists that it be cut down for it stands in the way of the only clear and easy access to the mine site. For some it is hard to imagine that a tree could be the center of a controversy. Why would it matter if this old tree is cut down? Why let one lone tree stand in the way of jobs and supposedly a better life for many people?
But that old tree, the Trail Marker Oak, once pointed the way for the Indians and the early settlers in the Link Lake community toward the Fox River and the trading post located there. Today it reminds the people of Link Lake of their past and it is a visible connecting link of the community to its history.
Symbols like the Trail Marker Oak are important to communities, for they allow people to see their history in something tangible, not merely in what someone remembers and perhaps has written down—although that is of great worth as well. We must as a nation protect our historic symbols, for if we don’t, we will lose touch with an essential part of our histories. And when we forget our histories, we forget who we are.
“That’s as far as Ambrose got,” said Noah as he folded the paper, stuffed it into his pocket, and stepped away from the podium. The applause would have continued even longer had not Earl Wade interrupted to say, “This concludes our memorial service for our friend and neighbor who has done so much for this community and for this great country. Thank you all for coming.”
Noah Drake hopped on his bike and rode home, feeling more sad and lonely than he ever felt in his young life. When he stepped onto the porch at his farmhouse, a little animal appeared from the shadows. It was Ranger, Ambrose Adler’s pet raccoon. The little animal trotted up to Noah and rubbed its back on Noah’s leg. Noah reached down and petted it.
65
Trail Marker Oak
The whine of a chain saw assaulted the quiet of the new day as the mists rising from the waters of Link Lake slowly drifted west and the sun’s first rays broke the horizon, illuminating the brilliant autumn colors of the maples and aspens, the oaks and the birches that clustered on the hillsides around the lake. Three men walked from their truck. One carried a chain saw; the other two carried axes. The chain saw operator, a burly man in his fifties, his face hidden under an orange safety helmet, revved the machine a couple of times like a teenager with a new driver’s license and permission to drive his father’s car alone for the first time. The men, all professional loggers, walked the short distance from their truck. The chain saw operator held the saw well in front of him, the saw sending off little spurts of chain oil. As the trio approached the old bur oak tree that they were ordered to cut this October day, they saw something emerging from the mist—something that surprised them. The chain saw operator shut off his machine and fished a cell phone out of his pocket to call his supervisor. “Boss, we’ve got a problem.”
Out of the mists walked a line of people, holding hands, approaching the Trail Marker Oak, and then surrounding it, continuing to hold hands. And singing. Everyone was singing.
“We shall overcome,” they sang. They sang in loud, melodious voices that carried from the park to the lake, singing that people heard in the Village of Link Lake. Singing that replaced the sound of heavy equipment the villagers expected to hear on this, the day construction of the Alstage Sand Mine was supposed to begin.
Armed guards, carrying rifles and looking menacing, were supposed to prevent this sort of thing. But where were they? Not a one in sight. Only loggers, one with a chain saw, and enough people to encircle the Trail Marker Oak with a few left over. And a newspaper reporter. Billy Baxter, with camera and notepad, as surprised as the loggers, as he had come expecting to record the cutting down of this historic tree. In his notepad he wrote down the people he recognized, the people who were holding hands and circling and protecting the Trail Marker Oak and singing. And he was both shocked and amazed at who he saw holding hands and singing together that old Civil Rights song that tugged at the hearts and minds of so many.
“We shall overcome. We shall overcome. We shall overcome someday.”
Upon returning to his Willow River office, Billy Baxter immediately began typing the story that he knew would make its way across the country. He wrote:
Old Oak Tree Brings People Together
By Billy Baxter, editor
Sometimes something as simple as an oak tree can bring people together, even longtime bitter enemies. As many people know, the little Village of Link Lake in central Wisconsin has been the center of attention since the revealing of the identity of the nationally known environmental writer Stony Field as a simple-living vegetable farmer by the name of Ambrose Adler. Persons unknown, but obviously someone who disliked Stony Field and his writing, burned Adler’s barn and contributed to his death.
All of this took away from the issue that has torn little Link Lake apart since the day the village board signed a lease with the Alstage Sand Mining Company of La Crosse to open a sand mine in Increase Joseph Community Park.
On an early October morning, loggers hired to remove the historic Trail Marker Oak, and thus officially begin the mine’s operation, faced something they had not anticipated, nor had this writer, who was there to record the event. From out of the early morning mist came a group of people who held hands and surrounded the tree and sang “We shall overcome” in voices that rolled across the waters of Link Lake on that still morning and hung in the air like the morning fog.
There Emily Higgins, outspoken foe of the sand mine and especially the mining company’s plan to cut the Trail Marker Oak, held hands with Marilyn Jones, the original advocate for the mine. Marilyn Jones held hands with her sister, Gloria, who left the community many years ago in a family dispute. Gloria held hands with her son, Karl, who works for the Alstage Sand Mining Company as a consulting engineer. Also holding hands at the tree were well-known farmers from the area, Fred Russo and Oscar Anderson, plus several other historical society members.
In his many years as a newspaper reporter and editor, this writer has never witnessed anything quite like this. Obviously the Alstage Sand Mining Company did not begin operations on the planned date. Now the question appears to be, will the mine open? And can this collection of onetime adversaries continue to protect the Trail Marker Oak and prevent a sand mine from opening in their beloved park? Can they save an old oak standing on sacred sand, as Emily Higgins once asked?
Books by Jerry Apps
Novels in the Ames County Series
The Travels of Increase Joseph
In a Pickle
Blue Shadows Farm
Cranberry Red
Tamarack River Ghost
The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County
Nonfiction
The Land Still Lives
Cabin in the Country
Barns of Wisconsin
Mills of Wisconsin and the Midwest
Breweries of Wisconsin
One-Room Country Schools
Wisconsin Traveler’s Companion
Country Wisdom
Cheese: The Making of a Wisconsin Tradition
When Chores Were Done
> Country Ways and Country Days
Humor from the Country
The People Came First: A History of Cooperative Extension
Ringlingville USA
Every Farm Tells a Story
Living a Country Year
Old Farm: A History
Horse-Drawn Days
Campfires and Loon Calls
Garden Wisdom
Rural Wit and Wisdom
Limping Through Life
The Quiet Season
Audio Books
The Back Porch and Other Stories
In a Pickle
Children’s Books
Eat Rutabagas
Stormy
Tents, Tigers, and the Ringling Brothers
Casper Jaggi: Master Swiss Cheese Maker
Letters from Hillside Farm