Tamarack River Ghost

by Jerry Apps

  He turned to his phone and punched in some numbers.

  A voice on the other end of the line said, “Dean’s office.”

  36. Opening Day

  Two days on the Wisconsin calendar take on near religious significance: in November, the opening day of deer season, and in May, the opening day of fishing season. Wisconsin sportsmen and sportswomen mark these dates on their new calendars every January. Absolutely nothing takes precedence over them—no clear-headed person would ever schedule a wedding, a birthday party, or even a funeral on these days—that is, if anyone were expected to attend. These were sacred days, revered year after year.

  Opening day of fishing season took on circus proportions on the Willow River Millpond each year. Fishermen from as far away as Milwaukee and Madison gathered to try their luck at catching a native brook trout. They fished from shore, they fished from the dam that created the millpond, they fished from boats small and large (no motors of any kind were allowed, however). They drank beer, told stories, and partied as they waited for first light. They fished with fly rods and spinning rods, with cane rods and old-fashioned casting rods. They fished with fancy home-tied flies. They fished with spinners and assorted lures. They fished with earthworms and minnows, little-finger-length, silver bait minnows, that for most fishermen worked best to lure a spring-hungry brook trout.

  Some built campfires on the shore, where they huddled to keep warm on a chilly early May morning. They laughed and hooted—they woke up the neighbors, but nobody complained. These loud and rowdy fishermen brought much-needed money into Willow River.

  On this particular opening day, Natalie was on duty, of course. She had invited Josh to accompany her; they had arrived at the millpond about midnight, and the parties were already in full swing. She didn’t think much of the shenanigans that were a part of opening day. For her, trout-fishing meant sneaking along a quiet little stream with a fly rod, allowing a fishing fly to float over a likely hole where a trout lay dozing, and then, when the fish took the bait, set the hook and pull it in, all the while respecting the fish and its fight for survival. Once the fish was in your net, you admire it, perhaps take a photo of it, and then let it go. The folks on the Willow River Millpond today were fish eaters—nothing wrong with that, of course. It was their right. But the way they went about it galled Natalie.

  Her job was to check fishing licenses and make sure nobody was taking home more than their limit—which was unlikely of course, because fishing competition was so heavy that anyone was lucky to catch one or two fish.

  Natalie and Josh sat in her truck, watching the goings on and waiting for first light, when she would begin checking licenses and fish numbers. She had a big thermos of coffee, which the two of them shared as they talked. It was a cold morning, right around freezing, so she started the truck every half hour or so to take off some of the chill.

  “How’s the new job going?” Natalie asked. Josh hadn’t talked much about it.

  “I haven’t gotten used to it; it’s a new approach to journalism, I must say.”

  “People pay to have their news published?”

  “That’s right. You have a story you want published, say you want to report on some recent arrests, the DNR would have to pay to have it published.”

  “So what about the story that needs telling and nobody has money to pay to see it in print?”

  “Well, according to my boss, the assistant editor and I are in charge of writing those stories.”

  “Sounds a little weird to me.”

  “My boss says it’s the future, that it’s the new model for the publishing industry that will both make money and get the news out. Online news does have some advantages; we can link to video; we can provide up-to-the-minute market reports. Even link to social networks.”

  “So do you think you’ll keep reporting on the big hog operation that’s coming into the valley?” Natalie asked.

  “I hope so. That’s the biggest story to come along in a while. Right now it looks like a done deal—I thought for a time that public opinion might sway the zoning committee to vote against it, but the university’s research seemed to seal the deal for Nathan West.”

  “You think that research was accurate? Those numbers looked a little goofy to me,” said Natalie.

  “Looked that way to me, too. I’m doing some checking on that right now. But no matter what, looks like we’ll have a big hog producer in the county.”

  “Are these big factory farms the future, Josh? Is the small, family farm dead?”

  “Looks that way. Sure looks that way,” said Josh.

  Josh looked out over the millpond as early-morning darkness slowly slipped away, revealing a millpond covered with boats, sometimes only six or seven feet apart. Occasionally, he heard the thump of one boat slamming into another, then some loud words admonishing the culprit who had failed to anchor his boat properly.

  “Well, it looks like time to go to work,” Natalie said, taking a last sip of coffee. “You coming?”

  “Sure, I’ll tag along,” said Josh. “Might find a story for the paper.”

  Natalie began checking fishing licenses; most folks were polite and dug into their pockets for the little slips of paper that gave them the right to fish. A few grumbled because they had to take off their gloves to dig out their billfolds. But everyone complied. Natalie knew full well that those fishermen who did not have licenses, and there were always a few, had quietly slipped away when they spotted the warden’s truck.

  “You like a beer?” one fisherman asked after he’d been checked and put his billfold away. His speech was slurred. From the pile of empty beer cans in front of the guy, it was obvious he had been drinking since he had arrived.

  “No, thank you,” said Natalie, smiling.

  Today, she would only be checking those fishing from shore—they were not in short supply, as they stood almost shoulder to shoulder all around the pond. Those in the boats she would check another day, when she launched her boat. She did not want to push her boat into a pond overcrowded with boats and noisy fishermen.

  As the first glimpse of the sun appeared in the east, Natalie heard an enormous splash and a drunken yell, “Man overboard. Man overboard.” Someone had fallen in. Several people on shore began chuckling, but it was not a laughing matter. The water was cold, as was the air, and hypothermia would quickly incapacitate the fellow if he weren’t quickly fished out of the water. Several boats were immediately at the place where he had fallen in. He popped to the surface; the down jacket he wore helped him do so, but it would quickly become soaked and drag him under again, had not a couple of nearby fishermen grabbed him and hauled him into their boat, likely saving his life.

  Natalie and Josh watched the entire episode; she was especially concerned because she didn’t want to face a drowning on opening day of fishing season. “This is Warden Karlsen,” she called out. “Bring the man to shore. Bring him here.” She waved so the fisherman could spot her.

  Soon the inebriated, thoroughly soaked fisherman stood on shore next to one of the several campfires. He was shivering uncontrollably, suffering the first stages of hypothermia.

  “My . . . fishing rod . . . ,” the man muttered. His teeth were chattering.

  “What about your fishing rod?” Natalie asked.

  “It fell . . . overboard with me. It’s . . . on the bottom of the pond.”

  Natalie gave the man a perplexed look. He was worried more about his fishing rod than his own life.

  “My wife . . . gave it to me for Christmas,” the man said. He continued to shiver as someone helped him replace his thoroughly soaked jacket with a dry one.

  “She’ll . . . kill me,” he said, near tears.

  “You should have thought about that before you decided to drink while in a boat. And next time, remember to wear your life vest,” Natalie said. She had no patience with boaters who drank and even less patience for those who refused to wear life vests. Even those in rowboats, as was the case for this thorou
ghly soaked fellow. He said nothing. With the warm jacket and the blazing campfire, his shivering had slowed. His dip in the pond had also sobered him up considerably. He stood now, lamenting the loss of his new fishing rod and thinking about the tongue-lashing he would receive from his wife when he returned home.

  Josh thought about doing an article on boat safety, the perils of not wearing a life vest while boating, and the even greater risks of drinking while boating. He wondered if such an article would fit the editorial model his new boss had laid out for Farm Country News.

  Natalie checked licenses and catches all around the pond, with Josh tagging along behind, observing but not saying anything. When they returned to her truck, she offered, “You ready for breakfast? I’m buying.”

  They drove to the Lone Pine and feasted on eggs and flapjacks and drank more coffee.

  “Another opening morning of fishing season in the record book,” said Natalie.

  37. Electronic News

  By late May, the online version of Farm Country News, with its new editorial approach, was humming along. So far there had been some, but not much, grumbling about paying to have something in the newspaper. Payment rates varied. If someone wanted something to appear on the home page, the cost was twenty-five cents per word. Everything else was a flat fifteen cents a word, with no limit on the number of words.

  The paper was divided into several sections so people viewing could easily find material that interested them: “Front Page,” “Latest Farm News,” “New Ways for New Days,” “Tales from an Earlier Time,” “Market Reports,” “Country Poetry.”

  Material poured in, a bit of a surprise for Josh, who was more than a little skeptical of how the former readers of the print version of Farm Country News would take to the electronic version. Josh was well aware that now, with the electronic version, people were reading their newspaper on a vast array of devices, from their cell phones, computers, iPads, and Kindles. The paper had received a dozen or so letters lamenting the loss of the print newspaper that had been a mainstay in rural homes for nearly 150 years. But it received an equal number of, if not even more, e-mail letters applauding it for “looking to the future and becoming a part of it,” as one reader commented.

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that the newspaper was entirely free, both online and its monthly print versions. And further, at first glance it appeared that the paper included absolutely no advertising, not one display ad and no pages of classified ads. Some people didn’t realize that the advertising in the paper was disguised as news stories. And none, except for those who read carefully, could at first glance tell the difference between a “real” story and a “story ad,” as Josh began calling them. He had a serious problem with the approach; it clearly violated his sense of journalistic integrity—but for the time being, he chose not to bring the issue up with his boss.

  Josh hired two new staff members; each had once been a member of either the Capital Times or the Wisconsin State Journal staffs in Madison. The masthead for Farm Country News read:

  Publisher: Lawrence Lexington

  Managing Editor: Josh Wittmore

  Assistant Editor: Natasha Bruchs

  Copyeditor: Jerry Kolka

  Every article that appeared in the newspaper carried a byline, and with the many and varied contributions, it appeared at first glance that Farm Country News had an enormous staff. Few knew that the actual staff consisted of essentially only four people, plus a couple of additional persons who took care of the computer work.

  It was Josh’s idea to include a “Country Poetry” section. He was hoping that perhaps M.D. would see fit to submit some more material. He’d come to like this person’s blunt, in-your-face take on matters. M.D. had no love for the big hog operation coming to Ames County, that was for sure. Josh wondered if he had anything more to say on the question.

  Some poetry did arrive; at least those sending it in called it poetry. Because the writers had included checks and sometimes even cash, with word counts carefully calculated, he had no reason to turn anything down, no matter what its quality. Besides, he reasoned, who knows what makes good poetry, anyway? He’d always placed poetry in the same category as paintings. He knew what he liked, and he knew what he didn’t; he believed the same held for poetry. During the first week, he included three poems, expecting to hear some word from his boss about such drivel, but he didn’t. A dollar is a dollar, no matter whether wrapped around poor poetry or an important news story.

  Farming

  By George

  Roses are red,

  Violets are fine.

  Farming is fun,

  But not all the time.

  Not much to it, but George had included the required fifteen cents a word, even counting “By George.” From the nature of the handwriting, he suspected George must be an elementary school student. But the paper was wide open to submissions, no matter the writer’s age. He suspected about the only reason he had for turning someone down was profanity—at least that was the guideline he was using.

  A second poem was a bit more intriguing:

  Spring

  By JoAnn Clausen

  When the warm winds from the south

  Gently caress the newly turned soil.

  And when the leaves of the oak are the size of a squirrel’s ear

  Farmers know to plant their corn.

  It is not the calendar they watch for guidance,

  It is the feel of the wind,

  And the leaves of the oak tree.

  These things they know to watch.

  But when two ads disguised as stories arrived on his desk, he knew he must stand up for what he believed.

  Fritz’s hardware store in Willow River e-mailed in a story describing its new lawnmower. “We have just received a new battery-operated mower. One overnight charge is enough to mow a good-sized town lawn, with the muss and fuss of handling gasoline a memory left in the past, and there’s no trouble at all in starting the machine. Push the ‘on’ button, and the machine comes to life with a silent purr that means business.” The article went on at length, describing the virtues of the mower, making in-depth comparisons to the gasoline-powered machines that customers had long been accustomed to using.

  John Deere sent a long story describing its new lineup of tractors for the smaller “hobby farmer.” “No matter the size of your acreage, we have the tractor for you,” the article concluded.

  With copies of the two stories in hand, Josh walked down the hall to his boss’s office, where the door was always closed. He knocked.

  “Enter.”

  Josh opened the door and found Lexington staring at a computer screen, his big desk absolutely devoid of any paper.

  “What can I do for you, Josh? Everything going okay? Lots of material pouring in, just as I predicted.”

  “Got these two items this morning,” said Josh. He put them on Lexington’s desk.

  “Did the money come in with the stories?”

  “It did.”

  “So, what’s the problem?” asked Lexington.

  Josh hesitated for a moment. “These are not stories; these are ads.”

  “So?”

  “We shouldn’t be disguising ads as news stories; it’s just not right. It’s deceiving, and it will tarnish our reputation.”

  “Whoa, there, Josh. Calm down. Haven’t you been listening to me? This is the new journalism. People don’t know the difference between an ad and a story, and, frankly, most of them don’t care.”

  “It’s our job to be honest with people. Not calling this sort of material advertising is dishonest.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “I am.”

  “Then get back to work. We’ve got a newspaper to run.”

  Josh returned to his office, angry at the response he’d gotten from his boss and perplexed by how he should proceed. Lexington was challenging everything he had learned about ethics and responsible journalism. He knew the exchange he’d just had was likely the first of
more such confrontations. He turned to some of the other materials the paper had been receiving.

  He was surprised at the number of articles he received that fit within the “Tales from an Earlier Year” section of the paper. Every week, a half dozen or so stories would arrive from around the country, some by e-mail, some by regular mail. Just this week he’d gotten an e-mail submission from what appeared to be a retired farmer in Minnesota, recounting what farm life was like when he was a boy and how bears would regularly raid the hog pen at night. In considerable detail, the farmer told how he would sit up all night with a 12-gauge shotgun in his lap, waiting for a marauding bear to come by.

  A farmwoman from Iowa wrote about May baskets and how they made the small paper baskets, filled with spring flowers—violets and dandelions mostly—at the country school, then would walk through the neighborhood with them on warm May nights and quietly hang them on friends’ doorknobs and yell “May basket!” Their friends were then supposed to chase after the basket-giver, trying to catch her.

  A farmer from Portage County, Wisconsin, sent in a story about how when he was a kid his family planted up to twenty acres of potatoes with a hand-operated potato planter. He wrote how he would drop a piece of seed potato into the top of the device; push the planter into the soft ground; push it forward so the seed potato would escape into the hole; and then pull the planter out of the ground, making a “clop” sound when the bottom closed. “There was a rhythm to potato planting, a melodic sound made when a couple of men planted potatoes side by side, working their way across the potato field, following the long marks etched in the soft soil, which were earlier made by a horse-drawn marker. On a quiet day, the sound of the ‘clop,’ ‘clop,’ when the planter closed, could be heard for some considerable distance.”