Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  Fifteen

  Yamamoto Farm

  Second Street was one of several roads running east and west out of Cottonwood. Toward the east, it ended about a mile out of town at McCann Park and the Little Bear River. There was never a reason for the road to bridge across the river at that point, as on the other side the terrain turned quickly into the steep and impassable mountains of the Big Blue Wilderness area. Traveling west on Second Street out of Cottonwood, the road became County Road 5. It then gently turned to the north around Walcott Mountain and then back to the west, where the land opened up to a flat and fertile valley remarkably suitable for farming. Nearly all the farms in the area were located in this valley, though many had not survived over the years.

  One particular farm that had done well, and had been the exception to the overall declining economic health of Cottonwood, was the Yamamoto Farm. Uyeda Yamamoto first began farming in the area in the 1940s after he and his family were released from the internment camps of World War II. After Uyeda died, the farm was passed on to his son, Amida, who now ran it with his wife, Takara, and their two sons, Ichiro and Miki.

  Since the very beginning of the farm, organic principles had always been applied. When other farms in the area began using expensive and what later proved to be toxic and cancer causing fertilizers and pesticides, the Yamamoto Farm used organics. For many years, the locals in Cottonwood had chided Amida Yamamoto for his farming techniques, often referring to the farm as the “manure farm,” or other even more derogatory terms, for its use of copious amounts of cattle manure as fertilizer. The large ranches north and east of Cottonwood provided a steady, cheap, and easily obtainable supply of manure to the Yamamoto Farm.

  But the faithful dedication of the Yamamoto Farm to organic and natural farming principles proved wise in the long run. When many of the other farms in the area struggled and failed, the Yamamoto Farm always seemed to prosper. The other farms relied on the expensive use of petrochemicals in their fertilizers and pesticides, and as the prices of these products soared with the price of oil, the Yamamotos enjoyed the relatively stable price of cow dung.

  “Thank God shit is cheap and the plants love it!” Amida would often say to his family. He meant every word.

  There were two other factors that helped the Yamamoto Farm succeed over the years. First, the family had built a total of three greenhouses, one very large one and two smaller ones. In doing so, they guaranteed that they could grow some sort of produce, and even flowers, all year long. The second factor was the increasing desire from consumers for organic and all-natural products. The Yamamotos had been farming this way for decades, and as far as the family was concerned, the mindset of consumers had finally aligned itself with what the Yamamoto family had known all along—natural and organic produce, following the laws of nature, is always healthiest and best. The Yamamoto brand of organic farm products, from fruits and vegetables to flowers, were well-respected in health food stores and by consumers throughout the country.

  Amida Yamamoto stepped outside from one of the small greenhouses when he saw the hood of the delivery truck propped open and his son Ichiro standing up on the bumper and peering inside. Twice a week, one member of the family would use the truck to make the trip to Montrose to deliver products to distributors who then sent them on to health food stores around the entire region. Amida knew that Ichiro was to have left for Montrose nearly an hour ago.

  “Problems Ichiro?” asked Amida as he walked up to the truck.

  “Very strange problems,” said Ichiro.

  Amida stepped up onto the bumper next to his son and looked down at the engine. “Why is it strange? What’s it doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Father, absolutely nothing. It doesn’t even make a sound when I turn the key.”

  In the many years of running the farm and fixing equipment, both Amida and Ichiro became good mechanics. They were better farmers than mechanics, but they knew their way around mechanical equipment.

  “Go and give it a try and let me listen,” said Amida.

  Ichiro climbed into the cab of the truck as Amida strained his ears to listen carefully. There was only silence. A few moments later, Ichiro came back and stood next to Amida.

  “What could it be?” asked Ichiro.

  Amida shook his head. “You are right—this is very strange. I can’t explain it. The battery is good, as the light in the cab turns on. I’ve not seen such a thing before. Before we do anything else, we must call our distributors to let them know we are having some delays.”

  Amida and Ichiro jumped down from the bumper and were heading toward the house when the younger son, Miki, came around the side of the house driving one of the farm’s small electric utility trucks. He pulled up to Amida and Ichiro.

  “What’s wrong—truck problems?” asked Miki.

  “Not sure,” said Amida, “but it sure won’t start.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Miki.

  “We must let our customers know the situation. Customers are always first, Miki,” said Amida, resting his hand on his younger son’s shoulder.

  Ichiro had been staring at Miki and the small truck. “How far will that run, Father?” he asked.

  “The little trucks?” said Amida. “We charge them every night so we’ve never had to find out, but I think they are supposed to go more than a hundred miles between charges, depending on the terrain. What are you thinking?”

  “We have three of them. We could unload the big truck and fill them up. That would just about equal the load I have in the big truck, especially if we use the passenger seats. We could at least drive them part of the way to Montrose. Maybe our distributors will meet us somewhere in between.”

  Amida liked the idea. Customer service and timeliness was just as important to him as the quality of the products they sold. “I will go call the distributors. You and Miki begin loading up the little trucks,” Amida said to them. “We will all be taking a little trip today, it seems.”

  Amida went inside the house and called the distributors, who agreed to meet the Yamamoto trucks between Cottonwood and Montrose. Amida hung up the phone and looked at his wife who was cleaning up the kitchen from their lunchtime meal.

  “Takara, this is a very strange day,” said Amida.

  Takara turned from the kitchen sink and looked at her husband. “Why do you say that? Because the truck has broken down?”

  “It is more than that,” Amida said as he stared out the back window to the exquisite Zen garden behind the house. “This morning when I was in the greenhouse, I noticed some of the flowers had opened earlier in the day than usual, but there was something even more amazing. Later, a flock of birds I watched take off gave auspicious signs. There were six birds in particular that distinguished themselves from the others…very auspicious.”

  “Shall I get the tea leaves out?” asked Takara, smiling and joining her husband at the window.

  “You can make fun of my traditions if you want, my lovely wife,” said Amida, “and I will still love you, but I tell you that something strange has happened today. The failure of our truck to start is only one more confirmation. Something strange is happening—something is changing.”

  Takara put her arm around her husband, and the two stood staring out the window toward the perfectly sculpted shapes in the garden. The trees, rocks, shrubs, and even the dirt itself had been lovingly tended to by Amida, creating an organic whole in which each part flowed into the next, complimented the next, without losing its own identity. As Amida looked at the garden, he wondered what sort of change was coming. In the fluid and ever-changing universe, Amida was confident that his farm and family were like the flexible bamboo—bending and adapting to the changes in the wind, yet never breaking. He had seen plenty of examples through the years of those who were rigid, inflexible, and fought changing conditions. Such people tended to break.

  Sixteen

  Silence

  A peaceful silence had descended on the town of Cottonwoo
d. Most people had accepted the fact that currently no cars, trucks, or motorcycles were operating in the town, and they simply went on with their lives as best they could. Reports from stranded travelers who managed to walk into town from the highway, both north and south from the area, indicated that their vehicles had stalled out up to a distance of about five miles in both directions. The only large hotel in town, the Cottonwood Inn, was already nearly full of stranded travelers. There were no railroad tracks or service that came near the town, and the one bus line that ran daily through Cottonwood, from Montrose to Durango and back, reported that at least one bus had stalled on the highway south of town. Its passengers and driver were now guests at the Cottonwood Inn. Though it was midsummer, it was as if a great snowstorm had swept into the area, and the town of Cottonwood was essentially cut off from the outside world.

  Sheriff O’Neil had been on the phone constantly since just after lunch. He’d spoken with the manager of the Cottonwood Inn and the state patrol to find out what, if anything, they knew of the stalled traffic situation. The state patrol was just getting in reports of stranded travelers, but the manager of the Cottonwood Inn was more helpful as she relayed the stories she’d heard from travelers forced to walk into town.

  After finishing his phone conversation with the manager of the Cottonwood Inn, the sheriff unclipped his radio microphone from his shirt and pressed the talk button. “Sparky,” he said, “what’s your location?”

  Sparky was the nickname of Gerald Sparks, Cottonwood’s deputy sheriff.

  “I am just passing by Gravine’s…on foot,” Sparky replied a few moments later.

  “Have you seen any moving vehicles anywhere?”

  “That’s a negative. Sure is quiet around here.”

  “Listen, I want you to go over to Al’s and see what Vince is able to get running. If anyone can get something running, he can. The first one he gets working, take it. Emergency police powers are in force until we get a handle on this.”

  “On my way,” Sparky said.

  “Thanks, over,” said the sheriff.

  Sheriff O’Neil clipped his radio microphone back to his shirt and sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers. Just then, Marlene appeared at his office door.

  “Anything I can do to help right now?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you get the mayor on the phone and tell him that we ought to get the emergency committee together as soon as possible. He may have already done this, but we need to speak with him right away.”

  “You’re treating this as an emergency?”

  “Of course! The hotel is filling up, and, as far as I can tell, no vehicles at all are getting through to Cottonwood. We’re isolated here. We could have a huge emergency on our hands. Most of our food comes by truck. The stranded travelers plus our own citizens are going to get hungry soon enough.”

  “I’ll go call the mayor right away.” Marlene left the doorway, and the sheriff was again alone in his office.

  The sheriff sat staring at the wall, once more drumming his fingers on the desk. He felt helpless without the use of a vehicle. He knew a vehicle was a key ingredient in law enforcement. Even in a small town like Cottonwood, in order for him to execute his duties, a motorized vehicle was essential. It was by vehicle that he was able to keep his finger on the pulse of Cottonwood. Without being able to read that pulse, he would lose touch with the changing conditions of his town.

  His thoughts then turned to the town’s largest employer. The sheriff picked up his phone and dialed.

  “Hello. Paul Reese here,” said a voice on the other end.

  “Paul, this is John. I take it you know about the emergency.”

  “Oh, hello, John,” replied Dr. Reese. “Emergency? What emergency is that?”

  “I guess you haven’t heard yet. All the vehicles in town have stalled out. Nothing is moving anywhere.”

  There was silence for a moment from Dr. Reese, and then he said, “Well, I guess that would explain the stranded motorist who came in to use our phone. I didn’t pay much attention to it. You say it’s the whole area?”

  “As far as we know, it is. I don’t know exactly how widespread it is, but every vehicle in town is dead, and I guess that’s the case out by you as well.”

  “Interesting. What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know just yet. I need more information. I just called to touch base with you. The emergency committee will be meeting later. Just let us know if there’s anything you need. Of course, I don’t know how long this might last. How well-stocked is your kitchen?”

  “I think we’ve got a few days worth of the basics. I’m sure we’re fine.”

  “Well, just keep us informed if there are any problems. Right now we’d have to walk out there or ride a bike if you needed us, but please call if any problems crop up.”

  “Thanks, John. We’ll keep in touch.”

  John O’Neil hung up and walked over to his window. A few children were riding their bikes on the street outside. Though the sun was shinning and it was a beautiful summer day, a vague unease began building in his stomach. He was losing control. He needed to be able to move around his town. Without transportation he was isolated and out of touch. He spun around and headed out of his office, past Marlene who was sitting at her desk talking on the phone.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, putting her hand over the phone.

  “For a bike ride,” he answered, heading out the back door of the office.

  Seventeen

  Old Blind Carl

  Darkness was the world that Carl Taylor had been born into. He had never seen a sunrise or sunset, a bird, flower, tree, or the faces of his parents or brothers and sisters. As a blind child growing up in a poor family in Louisiana, he’d faced many challenges. As a blind and black child, he’d faced even more.

  Carl remembered the day when he was still a young boy that his older and sighted brother Edgar told him there were differences between people—differences that Carl could not understand—differences in how they looked.

  “You jus’ need to believe me,” Edgar Taylor said. “There are white folks and black folks, and they are different.”

  “Different how?” young Carl asked. “I don’t hear no difference, and their hands feel the same when I shake ‘em.”

  “You’ll understand someday,” was all his brother could answer.

  Over the years, Carl did grow to understand—but not what his brother had tried to teach him. Through careful listening to the world around him, to the way people talked and how they said things rather than what they said, he learned that the differences between “white folk” and “black folk” were far smaller and far less interesting than their similarities. He learned that regardless of someone’s skin color, it was the color of a person’s heart that really mattered. He learned that even being blind, his universe was rich and full of wondrous things—so rich and full that those who looked for differences and separations between people missed so much of the wondrous connections between them.

  Carl Taylor came to Cottonwood when he was close to thirty. During his first forty years in town, he went by the name of Blind Carl, but now that he was in his seventies, he was known as Old Blind Carl. During his working years, he was employed by the town itself, doing various odd jobs people thought were suited for someone with his disability. He retired a few years back, his small house in Cottonwood was now paid for, and his retirement income had given him a comfortable though modest lifestyle.

  Old Blind Carl didn’t mind the “blind” or “old” adjectives being added to his nickname. He wasn’t much for social correctness. Besides, the way he saw it, it was pretty much accurate. He heard the love and affection the people of Cottonwood held for him by the way they spoke to him and knew they meant no harm by his nickname.

  For the town of Cottonwood, Old Blind Carl had been around so long that he had become a figure of stability in an otherwise fluid and changing world. Citizens could count on seeing Carl whenever t
hey took a trip to Main Street, as the town had provided a picnic table just for his use, which was placed on the sidewalk outside of Masterson’s Drug Store. Carl would spend a good part of his days, during the warm weather months, sitting at the table and telling his stories.

  Old Blind Carl was a man of stories. Many of Cottonwood’s citizens loved to sit with him at his picnic table, perhaps during lunch or just for a break with a glass of something cool, and listen to him tell his stories.

  Now no one was certain if all of Old Blind Carl’s stories were completely true, but that wasn’t really the important thing about them anyway. His lack of sight had given him the best ears someone could want, and those ears allowed him to listen very well. He listened deeply, and he listened constantly. He listened to people’s voices, and he listened to them talk about themselves and their lives. He heard their stories in their dialects and languages from all over the world. He remembered these stories, and when he told them to others, he would use the dialect of the original storyteller. This made his stories rich and colorful. If a person in Cottonwood wanted to hear a wonderful story and be taken away on a journey, all they had to do was spend an afternoon with Old Blind Carl.

  The other reason people liked spending time with Old Blind Carl was because of the way he listened to them. He had a way of letting them talk without interruption while he listened to the spaces between their words. “The truth is in the silence,” as he would say. He would listen to the tone and pitch and pace of their speech. He could tell more about what people meant by the way they were saying it and the spaces between their words, than by the actual words they were using. For his empathy and good listening skills, Old Blind Carl became the favorite confidant of many in Cottonwood.