by Jerry Apps
“Well, you gonna tell me, or just keep it to yourself ?”
“You’re testy this morning; you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“Maybe. Maybe I did. None of your damn business what side of the bed I got up on. So who is M.D., in your well-informed, intelligent way of thinking about things?”
“I think M.D. stands for Mortimer Dunn, the Tamarack River Ghost.”
Fred laughed out loud. “You serious? Old Mort Dunn’s been gone since 1900, hardly think he’s up to writing poetry or whatever that stuff in the paper is.”
“The ghost could be workin’ with a livin’ person, givin’ him the ideas to put down on paper and send in,” said Oscar.
“Oscar, I saw it comin’ your way, and I think it’s now here. Yup, I think it’s now here,” said Fred.
“What the hell you thinkin’ about now?”
“I’m thinkin’ about you.”
“I thought we was talking about who M.D. was.”
“We were.”
“So, what about me? What’s coming my way?”
“Senility, the old-timer’s disease,” said Fred.
“Hell, Fred, I ain’t no more senile than you are.”
“So why’d you think ‘M.D.’ might stand for Mortimer Dunn?”
“’Cause it just might. Say as you will, that old Tamarack River Ghost is still around. Still around. You can bet your bottom dollar on it,” said Oscar.
24. Paper Problems
Josh Wittmore, ad manager Bixby Billings, photographer Steve Atkins, and Bert Schmid sat around an old oak table in Farm Country News’s conference room on the Wednesday afternoon following the Tamarack River Winter Festival. The conference room also served as the lunchroom, archives collection room, photocopy room, and a place where extra stuff was stored—such as newspapers from around the country, farm magazines, and the like.
Bert had written rows of numbers on the blackboard that hung on one end of the room. Above each row, he wrote a year, starting with 1965, and a year for every ten years since. The numbers represented profits, and from 1965 to 1995 they showed a steady increase—1995 was a peak. Since then, the numbers had been dropping. The newspaper was losing money, more each quarter.
When everyone was seated, Bert stood up and walked to the board. “You all know that we’ve got financial troubles, but I wanted to take a few minutes to show you how bad it really is. There’s a clear danger we might go bankrupt.”
The room was quiet. “The numbers speak for themselves—so, do you have any questions?”
“Have we had any increase in subscriptions since we started running some of the community contributions?” asked Josh.
“A little. A few more subscribers. We need all the subscribers we can find, but our big problem is advertisers. We need more advertising money. That’s how we’ve survived in the past; that’s the only way we can survive in the future. Bixby, what’s your take on increasing advertising revenue?”
Bixby Billings, a round-faced, bald, moderately overweight man, was prone to wearing loud neckties and bright shirts. He generally had a positive, I-can-get-it-done attitude. But not today. “I’m trying everything,” he said. “I tried various kinds of special offers. I make the rounds of the farm shows, talking to the big machinery and feed guys. I’m working ten-hour days, and when all is said and done—I just don’t know what to do. The Internet is killing us. No question about it. The big companies, the farm machinery companies, the feed companies, the chemical companies—they have as much advertising money as before or more than ever—but they’re advertising through their own websites and on dozens of other farm-related websites. I don’t know how to compete with that.”
“Josh, what’s your take on all this?”
“I think Bixby’s got it right. The Internet is the future for lots of people, farm people included.”
“Damn Internet,” Bert said, pounding his big hand on the table. It’s gonna destroy all of us. How in hell do you fight something you can’t see? Tell me that?”
The room was silent, as everyone knew Bert’s attitude toward computers and the Internet. Bert insisted on writing his stories with a manual typewriter—the paper’s secretary retyped his work onto the paper’s server so it could be sent to their printer, which refused to accept anything that wasn’t digital.
“One last hope we’ve got,” said Bert, rubbing his hand through his thick, unruly gray hair. “That’s the Nathan West story. That’ll probably be the biggest story we’ve ever done, after the feedlot stories, that is; we sure got people talking about how beef cattle are fed for market. Folks are split every which way about the coming of this big factory farm to the Tamarack River Valley. Soon as you do your visit to the farm in Iowa, we’ll step up our coverage. Get people reading about Nathan West—and arguing. Can’t beat an issue like this for stirring up interest.”
“I hope you’re right,” Josh said quietly. “I hope you’re right.”
Josh returned to his office. He was worried about his future with Farm Country News, but at the same time more than pleased with how his relationship with Natalie was developing. At his desk, he opened a plain envelope postmarked Waupaca. It contained two more submissions signed “M.D.” Josh had given up trying to identify the writer. What he did know was that people were talking about M.D.’s writing, and that’s what was important. It didn’t matter if they were for or against the writer’s positions; what mattered is that they talked about it—and bought more newspapers.
He read this week’s submission—a short essay and a poem.
The Mystery of the Tamarack River
To those who know, and those who don’t, the mighty Tamarack River is a mystery and a history. From the seeping springs that give birth to it in the far north in the land of the Ojibwe, the Tamarack twists and turns its way south through the pinelands and the lowlands, through the cranberry marshes and the tamarack forests.
Twisting and turning, it’s moving, always moving, and ever growing larger as it welcomes the many little streams that feed it and give it strength and vitality as it hurries along through wide quiet stretches, over rapids and around tight turns on its way to the lake called Poygan and then to the mighty Winnebago, the largest lake in Wisconsin.
For ten thousand years this river has run, since the last great glacier gave up its icy grip on the land and retreated to the north, leaving behind a scattering of lakes and rivers, like the Tamarack and the Wisconsin, the Fox and the Chippewa, the Wolf and the Peshtigo.
The Tamarack River is always the same but constantly changing. The water we see today is not the water we see tomorrow. It is predictable and unpredictable. It is a source of solace and a place to fear, a friend one day, a foe the next. But it is always the river, the mighty Tamarack River. Those who know the Tamarack respect it and love it. For there is nothing like it. Nothing like the Tamarack River.
M.D.
Factories and Rivers
Factories and rivers don’t mix.
History is filled with examples.
Polluted water and dead fish.
A factory farm and a river never mix.
They never will;
It’s impossible to think they should.
So save our river!
The mighty Tamarack River.
Stop the factory hog farm.
Send it packing.
Keep our river clear and running pure.
Save the fish and other river creatures.
Keep the factories off the farm.
M.D.
Josh read both submissions a second time and decided to run them both in the next issue of the paper. He was sure the second one would generate some interest. Reading the material took his mind off the paper’s problems and his own, should the paper go under. He thought about how much money he had in the bank—not much—and how long he could live without a job. For the first time since he’d begun working at Farm Country News, he pulled up his résumé on his computer and scanned it. It would take
him a while to bring it up to date. He’d prepared his last résumé when he graduated from college. Lots had happened in his life since then, lots of water under the bridge, even though until now he had kept the same job.
He thought again about Natalie and her cabin, how warm it had been while a fierce blizzard raged outside and they drank wine and ate chocolate cake in front of a blazing fire. He thought of the smell of her hair and her subtle perfume, and the touch of her gentle hands on his neck—and more.
25. Smear Tournament
After living in central Illinois for ten years, Josh had forgotten how miserable the month of March could be in Wisconsin. One day a promise of spring, with temperatures creeping into the high thirties, the snow turning mushy and eaves from the snow-covered rooftops dripping, and the next, another snowstorm and temperatures hanging around zero. On the one hand, a depressing month, with seemingly constant reminders of winter, and on the other, a month of giddy anticipation at subtle hints of spring—the first green grass on the south side of a building, Canada geese winging north in long Vs, the first sandhill cranes arriving.
Josh sat at his computer; he had difficulty focusing this Friday morning, even though the sun was up and, for the first day in several, it felt like spring when he stepped out of his apartment and walked to his pickup. He remembered how when he was growing up on a farm on a morning like this his father would say, “You can smell it; you can smell spring in the air.”
He was thinking about Natalie; he hadn’t seen her for several days and found it was hard to think of anything but her. He wondered what her true feelings were for him. He also couldn’t take his mind off his newspaper, which clearly faced major financial problems, perhaps even more serious than his boss had shared. He forced himself to think of the emerging story about Nathan West. With the county zoning committee’s approval, they would build a hog facility in the Tamarack River Valley and change that community forever. He thought about the questions he would ask when he visited the Nathan West farm in Iowa in a few days. “What do you feed the hogs at different ages? How many days from birth to market weight? How do the hogs react to close confinement?” He wondered how he would be received; many of the big factory farm operators were not that keen on letting reporters in on their operations. They had gotten too many black eyes from the anti–big farm movement that seemed to be growing in prominence in recent years.
He jumped when the phone on his desk rang.
“This is Natalie.”
“Good to hear your voice. I was thinking about you this morning.”
“That’s good.” Her voice was soft, so different from the voice she used when she was asking a fisherman for his license. “Would you like to go with me to the annual Smear Tournament at Christo’s this weekend? It runs Saturday and Sunday afternoons. You and I could be partners.”
“A what?”
“Smear Tournament—where we play cards and win prizes.”
“I haven’t played Smear since I was a kid; I don’t think I remember how.”
“Oh, you’ll catch on quickly. Once you learn, you never forget.”
“I’ve never been very good at card games, no matter what they are.”
“I’ll help you. I’ll add an incentive, too.”
“And what would that be?” Josh smiled when he asked.
“I’ll cook dinner for us, at my cabin—complete with chocolate cake.”
Shortly after noon on Saturday, Natalie pulled up in front of Josh’s apartment in her little Honda Civic. She wore black slacks and a pale blue sweater and had tied her hair in a ponytail. “You ready to kick some butt?” she asked when Josh pulled open the Civic’s door and stepped inside.
“If you mean, am I ready to play Smear, you’ve got to be kidding. I tried to remember how to do it, and I’m lost. Somehow I got the rules tangled up with seven-card stud.”
“Forget about poker. Anybody can play poker; it takes a skilled card player to play Smear.” She smiled broadly when she said it.
“That’s what I’m afraid of—any card-playing skill I left behind when I was in high school.”
“Oh, quit being such a worrywart; I’ll show you how. The game is easy.”
When they arrived at Christo’s, they saw eight tables with four chairs at each.
“Sixteen teams of two start in the tournament,” Natalie said. “I registered us two weeks ago so we’d have a place.”
“Two weeks ago, before you even called me?”
“Sure, wanted to make sure we got in. People try to get in this tournament from all over the place. Several come from Wisconsin Rapids and sometimes as far as Oshkosh and Appleton. This is a big deal.”
“Right,” said Josh, smiling.
“Well it is. People around here take Smear seriously—you should remember that.”
Josh and Natalie checked in with the tournament leader, Don Happsit the barber, himself a noted Smear player. He and his wife, Marcella, had won the tournament just two years ago. Once you win, your name goes on a plaque and you can’t compete anymore.
At each table was a small laminated card, with the rules for the game. Josh began reading:
Smear (Four Players)
A deck for six-point Smear consists of thirty-four cards. The remaining cards are not used. The lowest card is a 7. Two players on the same team sit across from each other. Each player is dealt eight cards, with two tossed in the middle. The player to the left of the dealer bids first. This player may pass (no bid) or bid from two to six points, based on the cards the player holds. The bidding goes around the table; anyone can overbid the previous player. With the first card played, the bidder decides what is trump.
The count includes one point for each of following:
High (an Ace in the trump suit)
Jack (in the trump suit)
High Joker (always is trump)
Low Joker (always is trump)
Low (a 7 in the trump suit)
Game (the count of the cards taken by each team)—team members count cards together.
For purposes of game count, the value of the cards is:
Ace=4
King=3
Queen=2
Jack=1
10=10
all other cards=0.
Josh finished reading and looked across at Natalie, who sat patiently waiting. The second team at their table arrived, and they introduced each other. They learned their names—John and Florence Grabowski from Wisconsin Rapids—and found out that they had been participants in the tournament every year for the past ten. When Natalie explained that Josh had not played the game since he was a kid, they agreed to do a practice round. They had time, as the tournament wasn’t scheduled to start for a half hour.
Natalie dealt the cards, two at a time, until each person had eight. She put the last two in the middle.
Josh looked at his hand and placed the cards in the same suit together. He had the 8, 9, 10, and king of diamonds, a 7 of clubs, an 8 of hearts, a jack of spades, and a queen of clubs. He stared at them, not having the first idea whether he should bid or not. Florence looked at her hand and bid three.
Natalie walked around and glanced at Josh’s card hand, only because it was a practice hand. “Looks like the best you can do is pass—not a great hand.”
“I told you I never have any luck,” Josh grumped.
“Be patient, there’s always the next round; remember it takes twenty-one points to win the game, and at best a team can earn six points in a round.
Now it was John Grabowski’s turn. His hand included the ace, king, jack, and 7 of hearts plus the ace and king of spades. He bid five on his hand, with a sure count of the high (the ace) and the low (the 7) and, with the king, strong prospects of taking one or both jokers—without even needing help from his partner, or a lucky draw from the center two cards.
Natalie glanced at her cards, and quickly said, “Pass,” knowing that she couldn’t bid six, which would be a near perfect hand. John reached for the two cards in the ce
nter; they were a 7 of diamonds and a queen of spades, no help to his hand, so he discarded both of them.
They began playing, with John taking all the tricks; not only did he have all the counting cards—high, jack, two jokers, low, but he also had game, the sum of all the cards taken in the tricks.
By now, teams had filled in at all the tables, and Don Happsit began his little welcome spiel, which included reminding people to look at the instruction cards on the tables for any questions about which cards counted for what. “Also,” he said, “if there are any questions about anything, I’m the guy with the final answer.” He said it with a big smile on his face, as he remembered how a couple of years previously a big argument developed over whether you had to always play a trump card if a trump card is played and you have one in your hand. You do.
Josh glanced around the room. He recognized Fred Russo and Oscar Anderson playing as a team on the far side of the room. Fred wore a red-and-black-checked wool shirt, Oscar a green-and-black-checked wool shirt. He saw Brittani Martin and a fellow he assumed to be her husband. The rest of the people were strangers to him.
With the tournament started, John Grabowski began dealing the cards, while Josh tried to remember what he had just learned in the practice round, attempted to recall some of the rules from when he played as a child, and glanced occasionally at the instruction card Natalie had placed in front of him. He passed the first round, and Florence Grabowski won the bid and earned four points for Team Grabowski. The next round, Natalie bid four, won the bid, and Team Karlsen-Wittmore took in six points. The very next hand, Josh, with an ace, king, and queen of hearts, bid four, and Team Karlsen-Wittmore took in another five points. He and Natalie were now ahead ten to four. Their luck holding, Natalie bid four the next hand, and, with Josh holding both jokers and the low, they won six more points, bringing them to a total of sixteen to four.
“Beginner’s luck,” John Grabowski muttered when Josh’s next hand contained an ace, king, jack, and 10 of clubs, plus the 7, which was low. Team Karlsen-Wittmore picked up six more points and handily won the game, twenty-two to four.