Tamarack River Ghost

by Jerry Apps

  Tamarack River Valley Changed Forever

  Been by the old golf course lately?

  Have you seen the earth movers?

  Have you smelled the diesel-powered machines tearing up the soil?

  Have you seen the enormous building standing tall and long,

  with more buildings to come?

  Is this what we want in the valley?

  Doesn’t matter.

  This is what we got.

  But can we live with it?

  Will all these hogs be good neighbors?

  M.D.

  “Was there a check for payment enclosed?” asked Josh.

  “Nope, but there was eleven dollars in cash. It’s paid for. Should we run it?”

  “Sure, let’s run it in the poetry section. Might get some reaction.”

  Natasha returned to her office and Josh continued working on a two-thousand-word piece from Nathan West Industries headquarters in Dubuque, to be put on the paper’s front page. It came with a $500 payment (25 cents per word). Figuring it was written by some public relations person at Nathan West, Josh quickly decided it was wordy and at times repetitious and boring. He cut the piece to fifteen hundred words and refunded Nathan West the $125 for the words that he removed. As soon as it was copyedited, he put the piece online. It was noon. He sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head. The morning had been productive. The phone rang.

  “This is Josh Wittmore. How can I help you?”

  “Well, Mr. Wittmore, you can help me by agreeing to celebrate the fourth of Seventh-month with me,” said Natalie.

  “What in heaven’s name is the ‘fourth of Seventh-month’?” said Josh, recognizing Natalie’s voice.

  “Haven’t you read Leaves of Grass? Walt Whitman calls the Fourth of July the ‘fourth of Seventh-month.’”

  “Oh,” was all Josh could think to say. It had been a very long time since he had turned the pages of Walt Whitman’s work.

  “Are you planning to work all day?” Natalie asked.

  “I should, but what do you have in mind?

  “How about I pick you up at your apartment at about four, and we can drive down to Link Lake, see their displays, and take in the fireworks at night.”

  “Sounds like a plan—and let me add one more thing. How about I take you out for dinner before the fireworks, at the Lake Edge Supper Club?” said Josh.

  Josh left his office around three and drove to his apartment, his mind filled with thoughts of Natalie; the challenges and problems at the newspaper pushed into the background. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, typical for July.

  Promptly at four, Natalie, driving her Civic, pulled up in front of Josh’s apartment. She was wearing a red dress, which showed off her blonde hair, which today she allowed to hang loose.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Josh said by way of greeting.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, smiling broadly.

  They followed Highway 22 toward Link Lake, chatting about the weather and how nice it was and talking about the last fireworks displays they had seen; neither had seen one for several years. They had an unspoken agreement these days: that neither of them mentioned anything about their jobs—about the number of arrests Natalie had made earlier in the day or the rift developing between Josh and his boss.

  When they arrived in Link Lake, they found a place to park and then walked down Main Street, which had been closed to traffic. Tents and display tables lined both sides of the street. They stopped briefly at the Ames County Woodcarvers’ table, where three men sat whittling and talking with people about their work. They had an assortment of completed items for sale, ranging from ducks to robins, from Santa Clauses to old farmers with pitchforks on their backs.

  “Wish I could do that,” said Josh.

  “I bet you’d cut your finger,” Natalie said. They both laughed, as did the men whittling—one held up a finger with a strip of white tape wrapped around it.

  They walked past the Ames County Farm Bureau tent and, a few feet further on, a table promoting the Ames County Farmer’s Union. They stopped briefly at the Ames County Fruit and Vegetable Growers Cooperative’s display, where Josh chatted briefly with Curt Nale, whom he had met at the previous winter’s informational meeting about the Nathan West proposal.

  Then they stopped at the Link Lake Rod and Gun Club display.

  “You’re Natalie Karlsen, our conservation warden, aren’t you?” one of the members asked.

  “I am,” said Natalie.

  “Almost didn’t recognize you in a dress,” he said, then looked like he wished he hadn’t.

  “Oh, I wear a dress once in a while,” Natalie said. She smiled.

  They chatted for a bit about the good things the rod and gun club was doing for the fish and game populations in the county before she and Josh moved on.

  At the Link Lake Historical Society display, Natalie picked up a copy of a pamphlet titled “Link Lake: A History.” She read the first paragraph and then gave it to Josh:

  Preacher Increase Joseph Link moved to Wisconsin from New York State in 1852 with a small band of followers, called the Standalone Fellowship. This group established the village of Link Lake in the year of its arrival, built the Standalone church, ministered to the community, and challenged those who misused the land.

  “Do you know this history, Josh? Do know about this preacher?”

  “A little. My dad talked about the Standalone Church. Apparently, the members were a little on the unusual side.”

  “The part about ‘challenging those who misused the land’ sounds interesting. I wonder what that was about—sounds like they were environmentalists.”

  “I guess they were probably the first people in Wisconsin to really care about the land beyond trying to make a living off of it. Aside from the Native American of course,” said Josh.

  They walked to the Ames County Argus booth and stopped to chat with Billy Baxter, editor.

  “How’s it going, Billy?” Natalie asked. They had known each other since Natalie had first taken the DNR warden job.

  “Oh, we’re still making it. Still keeping our heads above water.”

  “You know Josh Wittmore, from Farm Country News?”

  “Josh, how’re you doing? All of us small-town newspaper guys are watching what you’re doing at Farm Country News. How’s the pay-to-say program going?”

  “We’re working out the kinks,” Josh said. “Seems to be working, though, lots of folks sending in material. And because it’s all free to the readers, we’ve got thousands of people looking at our website everyday— from all over the country.” He wanted to sound upbeat, but he worried his misgivings might be obvious from the tone of his voice.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” said Baxter. “I want to do more with our website at the Argus. Right now it’s pretty primitive, needs work. Haven’t really figured out how to handle the advertising online. I know most people hate seeing ads when they’re on the Internet—but news is not free, no matter how you put it out there. Along the way, somebody’s got to pay.”

  “That’s right. People don’t seem to realize that. On the Internet, there’s also the problem of what is news, what is opinion, and, frankly, what is rumor,” said Josh.

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Baxter. “All this stuff on TV and the Internet that’s supposed to sound like news but really isn’t.”

  “Okay, enough shop talk, you guys,” said Natalie, pulling on Josh’s arm. “This is supposed to be a day off—a day to celebrate.”

  “You ready for dinner? If we go now, we can beat the rush,” said Josh.

  “Sure, all the talk about newspapers has given me an appetite.”

  “Glad it didn’t have the opposite effect.”

  They walked the couple of blocks to the Lake Edge Supper Club, where they were promptly seated at a table by a window overlooking Link Lake. Water-skiers were skimming by, and across the lake, in a little cove. Josh could make out a cluster
of boats, fishing boats, he assumed.

  “How’re the water-skiers and the fishermen getting along these days?” asked Josh.

  “Not well. They basically hate each other. Best we’ve been able to do is have the lake associations enact no-wake zones for the early morning and the early evening.”

  Soon Natalie and Josh were feasting on fresh walleye, the special at Lake Edge that day, along with glasses of New Glarus Spotted Cow beer. The view from the window was about as good as it gets, with the cool, clear water of Link Lake providing a backdrop to the white and red pines that grew along its shore, along with the occasional birch or aspen, plus several weeping willow trees. It was the first time Josh had felt relaxed since he took over as managing editor of Farm Country News.

  “Thank you for thinking of this,” said Josh, taking Natalie’s hand in his and looking into her brown eyes. “Thank you so much.”

  “The dinner was your idea,” she reminded him.

  “I know, but I would still be sitting in front of my computer if you hadn’t called.”

  “I’ve got the same problem. I could be out there checking on fishing and boat licenses—I did that this morning from the crack of dawn. We all need some downtime.”

  “Indeed we do.”

  Neither said anything for a time, as they sat holding hands and looking out over the lake.

  With dinner finished and a couple of hours before dark and the start of the fireworks, Josh and Natalie sat on a park bench by the lake—a few others had already gathered for a front-row view of the fireworks show over the lake.

  Natalie jumped when the first “KA-BOOM” of an aerial bomb exploded high over the lake.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Those noises remind me of my army days.”

  “You don’t talk about your time in the army—why not?” asked Josh.

  Natalie didn’t reply but tucked her hand into Josh’s as she continued looking out over the lake, now a dark shadow in the early evening. They sat quietly, enjoying being together. As darkness crept over the lake, the first rocket shot into the blackening sky with a boom and a sizzle, opening with a loud “pop” sending red, yellow, and blue streamers downward into the lake. A collective “ah” went up from the crowd. The show went on for a half hour, with bright colors exploding into a black sky and then cascading into the dark waters of Link Lake. For the grand finale, multiple rockets lit up the sky like daylight, so much so that the street lights, on light sensors, blinked off, sending the town into total darkness.

  “Well, what do you think of that?” said Natalie.

  “Typical Link Lake,” said Josh. “Never know what’ll happen next around here. Remember the place was that way when I was a kid.”

  Through the darkness, they fumbled their way along Main Street and then to the lot where Natalie had parked her car. She invited Josh out to her cabin for a nightcap.

  At 8:09 the next morning, Josh was at his desk; he had just begun to read his e-mail when he heard, “Wittmore, get your ass in here, and right now.” It was Lexington, yelling louder than Josh had ever heard him. He jumped at the command; no one had ever talked to him this way before. He walked into the publisher’s office and stood in front of his desk. Lexington’s face was as red as a newly ripened tomato; the veins in his neck pulsed.

  “Did you read this e-mail from Nathan West?” yelled Lexington.

  “I’ve just started going through my e-mail,” answered Josh in a quiet, unemotional voice.

  “Well, let me read it to you. ‘We were astonished to see what your editorial staff did to the news article we sent you for Farm Country News. Your editors rearranged and cut a substantial number of words from the copy prepared by our public relations staff. I must say that we are more than a little disappointed. Returning some of the publishing fee based on the new word count does not make up for the hatchet job you did to our article. Emory Perkins, Communications Manager, Nathan West Industries.’”

  “I did a bit of editing to the piece. It was wordy, and some of it made little sense,” explained Josh.

  “Well, who in hell gave you permission to tamper with a customer’s writing? Who in hell gave you permission? Answer me that!” yelled Lexington. His face was even redder than before.

  “I believe it is part of my job to edit the material that’s submitted; that’s what an editor is supposed to do. That’s what I’ve been trained to do.”

  “Josh.” Lexington’s voice returned to a more normal level. “This is not an old-time newspaper. This is a new approach, a new idea, the future. You can’t use yesterday’s tools on tomorrow’s products.”

  “Good editing is good editing. Readable and accurate writing ought to be our goal, no matter whether the material is on paper or on a screen,” Josh said quietly but firmly.

  “Josh, Josh, Josh . . . You are not listening to me. When a customer sends us a story along with the money to publish it, we publish it. The only editing we should do is to make sure there is no profanity and the customer hasn’t said something over which they or we might get sued. Other than that, everything goes—as long as they pay their money. Understood?”

  “I hear you, but the reputation of Farm Country News depends on the quality of the material we publish.”

  “Reputation be damned. I’m interested in the paper making a profit. Period,” said Lexington. “Now I’ve got to write to Nathan West and offer to republish what they originally sent us for free—and we’ll lose money on the deal.”

  “Is that all?” said Josh quietly.

  “One more thing. Don’t you ever send money back to a customer. What in hell were you thinking? Once we have the money, it’s ours. You got that?”

  “I’ve got it,” Josh said, trying not to allow his disgust to show in his voice.

  43. Truce

  The remaining summer months flew by. Submissions continued to flow into the offices of Farm Country News. Articles from John Deere and Case IH, material from Archer Daniels Midland, a long piece from Monsanto, a story from Tyson Foods, another from Cargill, and a two-thousand-word piece from Land O’Lakes. Nothing from Nathan West headquarters in Dubuque—the folks there were obviously still angry about the editing Josh had done to their long article.

  For days on end, Josh sat at his computer, reviewing the stories that came in and doing some minor, usually very minor, editing. He bit his tongue when he allowed some of the material to appear on the paper’s website—in his mind too much of it was poorly written or at best sounded like an info-ad, which, indeed, most of the material was. As long as the money followed the stories, he had no reason to turn them down; his boss had made that abundantly clear.

  Josh stopped out at the Nathan West building site in late July and again in late August and after each visit wrote a brief piece, including photos. His boss reminded him that he should allow Nathan West to write the stories and take the photos—that the paper would benefit in at least two ways. Josh wouldn’t waste his time traveling, writing stories, and taking photos; and, of course, Nathan West would pay for everything that it submitted.

  After each of Josh’s stories appeared, the usual set of letters to the editor came flying in—some actual letters and most of them e-mails. Almost none included the required payment, so they were never published.

  Dear Editor:

  I drove by the building site for those new Nathan West hog houses. What a blight on the countryside. A stick in Mother Nature’s eye, that’s what they are.

  Jamey House

  Tamarack River Valley

  Dear Editor:

  Mark my word. Something’s gonna happen to them big hog houses. Something bad. We don’t want them in our valley. Simple as that.

  M. D.

  The last letter came in an envelope with no return address; the postmark was Plainfield. Josh stared at the signature. He had printed several items that M.D. had written, all of them quite critical of the Nathan West project, but none sounded the least bit threatening. Was M.D. going off in a new, more violent d
irection? He stared at the letter again; it was handwritten. All of the other M.D. pieces had arrived neatly typed. Could this be a different M.D.? Perhaps some kind of prank? Josh didn’t know what to make of the letter, except that it clearly sounded like a threat. He called Natalie. As a trained law-enforcement officer, she would have had experience with these kinds of threats, if indeed it was a threat.

  “Natalie, Josh. Got a question for you. What does it take for a threatening letter to become a threatening letter?”

  “What?”

  “What does it take for a threatening letter to become a threatening letter?”

  “I heard you the first time. What’s going on?”

  Josh read the letter aloud.

  “Who signed it?”

  “This is the part that troubles me. It’s signed “M.D.” As you know from reading the paper, we get the occasional submission from an M.D., but we have never gotten a letter to the editor. I can’t believe this is the same person, but you never know.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Are you still there?” Josh asked.

  “I’m still here. I don’t think the letter reaches the threat level. The person didn’t say he was going to harm the Nathan West buildings but merely said something might happen to them.”

  “True, but aren’t you splitting hairs?”

  “Maybe, but it sounds like a spoof, with the writer using ‘M.D.’ to stand for Mortimer Dunn, that old drowned lumberjack.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Hey, Dunn may be dead, but his ghost is still around. People swear that his ghost is out there, searching for his grave on dark nights and trying to protect the valley.“

  Natalie laughed. “You don’t believe in all that ghost stuff, do you?”

  “Well, I’ve been getting this poetry from somebody who uses the initials ‘M.D.’ I’m beginning to wonder if the old ghost isn’t writing the stuff and sending it to me.”

  “Oh, Josh, what’s happening to you? Where’s that trained journalist who wants only to deal with the facts? Whatever happened to him?”