by Jerry Apps
Andy was looking forward to a few hours away from the pickle factory. Even better, Amy Stewart was coming home for the weekend; he hadn't seen her since his father's birthday party back in June. Andy and Amy had exchanged only a couple of letters since her last time home; he was too busy at the pickle factory to do much letter writing, and she was obviously wrapped up with her job at J. I. Case. He hoped they could have some long talks and perhaps even make some plans.
The Link Lake fire station's whistle blew promptly at twelve, as it did every day. The crowd cheered and the parade began. The reviewing stand had been erected in front of the leaning pickle statue at the end of Main Street, and there sat the village president and the village board members. When the parade reached the reviewing stand, it veered right down First Street and on to the village park near the lake.
Marshal Quick led the parade, riding a big white horse that walked with its head high and danced on all four legs because the animal was not accustomed to large crowds. “Whoa, easy boy,” Marshal Quick said as the horse pranced down Main Street.
Members of the American Legion followed. They marched mostly in a straight line, carrying M-1 rifles on their shoulders. Andy Meyer marched in front, limping slightly and carrying the American flag. He proudly led the small troop of Link Lake war heroes and veterans from World War I, World War II, and the Korean Conflict.
A horse-drawn float, a hay wagon covered with green and white crepe paper, came next. The 1955 pickle queen, Gloria Jean Patterson, wearing a green off-the-shoulder gown, a gold sash that read “Pickle Queen,” and a crown resembling a cucumber plant, rode on the wagon with her court. The pickle court consisted of four young women all dressed in beautiful green gowns. They sat on hay bales and smiled and waved to the crowd.
Little Cynthia Adams, the Gherkin Princess (winner of a competition for girls three to six), sat next to the green-gowned court and queen. Cynthia was a black-haired beauty at age five, with dark eyes and a wide smile. She also wore a green gown and a gold sash, with the words “Gherkin Princess” imprinted on it. She tossed little green cucumber candies to the crowd. The children along the parade route scrambled after the treats.
The big green Link Lake garbage truck rolled down the street next, washed clean and shining, its diesel engine belching smelly black smoke. Next came Link Lake's 1942 fire truck, a vehicle purchased by the city in 1946 as army surplus. Some claimed the truck had a military record. Folks in Link Lake complained that they needed a new one, but the city fathers answered, “With so few fires, this one suits us just fine—besides, the truck is a war hero.”
The fire truck blew its siren; children covered their ears, and even the most docile parade horses sidestepped. When the fire truck arrived opposite the mercantile, a volunteer firefighter blew the siren a bit longer than usual. There was a terrific explosion as the old red truck backfired and a cloud of gray smoke shot from the exhaust pipe and settled over the crowd. Then the vehicle shuddered like an injured animal and died without further warning. The driver struggled to start it, but the old iron beast was dead, clear evidence for the “new fire truck is needed” crowd. A half-dozen men came forward, all smiling and laughing, and pushed the fire truck onto a side street so the parade could continue.
Another hay wagon, this one pulled by an orange Allis-Chalmers tractor, followed the ill-fated fire truck. A gold banner was strung across both sides of it, decorated with the words “Salvation Singers: Church of the Holy Redeemed.” A pump organ stood on the front of the wagon and Ethel Ketchum, the preacher's wife, sat at the keyboard. Someone later noted that she looked like she would come apart with her arms and legs flying in all directions as she struck the keys and pumped the instrument. Without a smile, without an expression on her face, she played “Nearer My God to Thee” as the wagon slowly rolled down Main Street.
Four large and perspiring middle-aged women wearing flowered, tight-fitting dresses clustered on the wagon, sharing hymnals. Helen Swanson, who had recently joined the church, was the fifth member. Her willowy figure contrasted with those of the big, motherly matrons who surrounded her. Helen smiled broadly as she sang the old church songs familiar to most churchgoers, no matter what their affiliation. Those who listened carefully heard that the Salvation Singers either sang behind Ethel's playing or ahead of her. Neither Ethel nor the singers seemed aware of any difficulties.
J. W. Johnson in his green H. H. Harlow pickup decorated with green bunting came next. He wore a bright green shirt and green cap.
Jake Stewart, riding in the cab of Carlos Rodríguez's Ford flatbed truck, followed the Harlow entry. His migrant crew sat on the back of the truck among several sacks of cucumbers they had picked that morning. Several old tractors followed the Stewart cucumbers: a F-12 Farmall, all sparkling red; a low-slung gray Fordson with red wheels; an old Rumley Oil pull tractor, a shiny gray and red Ford 8N; and a huge Case steam engine, shooting wood smoke and sparks from its stack. Every few yards the driver pulled the cord, the steam whistle screamed, and little children clung to their mothers.
The Willow River Riding Club rode a dozen Palomino horses with shiny brown coats and blond tails and manes—they pranced down Main Street and left odiferous reminders in their wake. The riders wore buckskin-fringed jackets and big white hats and sat astride black, silver-studded saddles.
A shiny green John Deere B tractor followed, crushing flat the deposits left by the horses in the street. The tractor pulled a hay wagon on which rode Albert Olson strumming his banjo, Thomas John Jones bowing his fiddle, and Louie Pixley fingering a button concertina. They each wore bright green shirts and new-looking straw hats and sat on bales of green alfalfa hay. As the wagon passed the mercantile, the trio played a raucous version of the “Beer Barrel Polka,” which brought cheers from the crowd.
Next came the Link Lake Historical Society float. On a flatbed International truck stood a man dressed in black from head to toe. He carried a red book under his arm.
A big sign on each side of the truck read, “Increase Joseph Link: Founder of Link Lake.” The old timers in the community knew that the original Link had moved to Wisconsin from New York State in 1852 with a small band of followers, called the Standalone Fellowship. This religious group established Link Lake and built the Standalone Church, which for years had ministered to the community and challenged those who misused the land.
The Link Lake High School band brought up the rear. Dressed in their purple and gold wool uniforms, twenty perspiring students marched in straight lines as they played “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The crowd clapped and cheered as they passed.
Oscar Wilson, a local farmer, and Ole Olson, the miller (who was all cleaned up and thus didn't look at all like himself ), stood near the pickle statue.
“Mighty fine parade this year, Ole,” Wilson said.
“That it was. That it was,” Ole responded.
With the parade over, Marshal Quick removed the barriers and began directing the traffic that had backed up while the parade was in progress.
Andy headed back to the pickle factory. He and the crew worked a few hours in the afternoon, and then Andy closed the factory at six for the evening festivities and headed home to clean up. Marshal Quick blocked off Main Street once more. The members of the three-piece polka band climbed back on their float wagon at about 8:30 and tuned their instruments, and the dance began. Women with full skirts and colorful blouses and men with open-necked shirts and church-going pants danced the polka, the old-time waltz, the two-step, the schottische, and more, on worn pavement designed for automobiles and trucks, not dancers.
Sounds of laughter drifted out the doors of the Link Lake Tap along with the smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Kids of all sizes with double-dip ice-cream cones, bags of popcorn, Hershey candy bars, and soft drinks in bottles lined the sidewalk, watching the dancers and looking forward to when they were a little older and could jump up and down in the middle of the street like their older brothers and sisters and their fathers
and mothers.
“Put your arms around me honey, hold me tight,” the band members sang, and the dancers sang with them. Some of the young people referred to this tune as the “butcher” song—“butcher arms around me honey . . .”
Meanwhile, Andy stopped by the Stewarts’ and picked up Amy, who had arrived on the afternoon train. She looked radiant in a bright yellow dress with a green sash.
“It's so good to see you, Andy,” she said, squeezing his hand. He smiled and said he was glad to see her, too. She brushed up close to him; the smell of her perfume filled the humid night air. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“It's so good to see you,” she repeated. Andy smiled. He was looking forward to the evening.
After arriving in Link Lake, Andy and Amy held hands as they walked along Main Street, looking at the various store window displays and talking about Pickle Days of earlier years. The dance music drew them toward the other end of the street.
Soon the two of them were dancing, doing the polka that they both enjoyed, singing along with the band while its members played and sang, “In heaven there is no beer, that's why we drink it here,” and then immediately moved into the “So Smart Polka.” Perspiration was beading on Andy's forehead as he and Amy danced and sang, “Just because you think you're so pretty, just because you think you're so smart. Just because you think you've got something that nobody else has got.”
Now the band shifted to the “Blue Skirt Waltz” and Amy snuggled up to Andy as they sang along with the band: “I dream of that night with you, lady, when first we met. We danced in a world of blue.” Next it was “I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee Waltz.” Andy looked into Amy's blue eyes and thought how beautiful she was. He couldn't remember when he'd had so much fun.
Both out of breath, they walked over to the lakefront and sat on a little bench that overlooked a small bay. The moon was climbing above the water, its light reflecting on the dark waters of the lake.
They could hear the band in the distance playing another polka, and the band members singing, “Hoop de do, hoop de do, I hear a polka and my troubles are through.” Both Andy and Amy knew the words to the tune.
“Beautiful night,” Andy said. Amy put her head on his shoulder as they both looked over the black water with the moonlight dancing on the still surface. Once more she put her arms around him and kissed him. And he kissed her and held her tight.
A slender fellow wearing a white shirt unbuttoned nearly to his waist stumbled along the sidewalk; he obviously had been celebrating a little too much. He stopped near where Andy and Amy were embracing.
“Doin’ a little makin’ out I see?” the drunk said as he wavered from side to side, nearly falling over before he corrected his lean and moved in the other direction without shifting his feet.
“On your way,” Andy said, angrily.
“Jeez, just askin’ a polite question, tha's all.”
The drunk continued along the sidewalk, staggering from side to side and nearly falling off the curb.
Neither Andy nor Amy said anything for a long time.
“Andy, there's something that's bothering me,” Amy finally said.
“On a beautiful night like this? How can anything bother anyone?”
“It's about our fathers,” Amy said seriously.
“What about them?”
“Your dad and my dad aren't getting along very well these days.”
“I know,” Andy said quietly, not wanting to think about the rift that had developed between these lifelong friends.
“Your dad is so stubborn,” Amy said.
“Not any more than yours,” Andy said, smiling.
“How come your dad is so caught up in doing things the old way?”
“Sometimes the old way is the better way,” said Andy.
“Not when it comes to farming.”
“Especially when it comes to farming,” Andy said. He had stopped smiling.
They sat next to each other, not touching, listening to polka music drift down Main Street: the Pennsylvania Polka and then the Sheboygan Schottische—one-two-three-hop, one-two-three-hop, hop, hop, hop, hop.
“You sound like your dad,” Amy said.
“I happen to agree with him. Changing to something new just because it's new is usually a bad idea. Changing how you farm without holding onto what's basic to farming is always a bad idea,” Andy said.
“You think that's what my dad is doing?” She raised her voice.
“Yeah, that's what I think he's doing.”
“What's basic about farming? It's mostly hard work and never knowing if you'll earn a dollar.” Amy had a cynical edge to her voice.
“What's basic is taking care of the land,” Andy said, raising his voice more than he intended.
“You think Dad's not taking care of his land?” Amy said. Her face was flushed.
“Yeah, that's what I think.”
“Well you are dead wrong, Mr. Andy Meyer. Dead wrong.”
“You don't take care of the land by plowing fifty-acre fields, by growing thirty acres of cucumbers, by pouring tons of fertilizer on the fields, by trying to farm a thousand acres,” Andy said quietly. He stood up.
“It's the future, Andy. Get big or get out. That's what the university says, that's what the Harlow Pickle Company says, that's what the farm implement companies and the feed companies say. You work for Harlow. Don't you agree with them?”
“They're all wrong, every last one of them, including Harlow.” Now Andy raised his voice a little, and his face turned red. “Are you getting your ideas from J. I. Case, who's trying to sell more tractors? Do they really care about farmers?”
The band played the “Rain, Rain Polka,” but neither Andy nor Amy heard the music.
“So you think I'm getting my ideas from the Case Company?” Amy asked in a louder than normal voice.
“Yeah, that's what I think.”
“Well, maybe I am,” she said. Her face was flushed.
“Between your old man and the Case Company you've got yourself a head full of wrong ideas,” Andy said angrily. “What happens when a farmer begins buying out his neighbors—we have fewer and fewer farmers. And pretty soon, towns like this start disappearing.”
“The good farmers get bigger, the bad farmers sell out,” Amy said in a matter-of-fact way.
“So you think my dad is a bad farmer?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Sounded like you did.”
Amy got up and walked past Andy to the edge of the lake. The band was playing an old-time waltz, and the sound seemed to bounce on the placid, watery surface. Across the lake, a whippoorwill called its name, over and over.
Amy turned around, walked back to where Andy stood, and said, “Take me home, Andy. I guess we have nothing more to talk about.”
“If that's what you want.”
“That's what I want.”
They didn't talk all the way to the Stewart farm. When she got out of the car, Amy ran to the house. Andy saw she was crying.
12
Cucumbers Keep Coming
The Monday following Pickle Days, Andy sat at the kitchen table reading the Link Lake Gazette. His mother was working in the dining room, and his father was outside somewhere. He'd have to leave for the pickle factory in a few minutes. Then he noticed the big ad the Harlow Company ran every week.
Mother Harlow's pickles. When you want the best you ask for Mother Harlow. Farm grown. Kitchen tested. Quality assured. Even kids like Mother Harlow's dill pickles.
Most of the ad was accurate, he thought, especially the quality part. He worked hard to help Harlow maintain high quality. He wasn't so sure about the part claiming that kids like Harlow dill pickles. He remembered not liking dill pickles when he was a kid, not even the ones his mother prepared.
He read the mercantile's much smaller ad:
Link Lake Mercantile
25 pounds sugar—$2.38
1 pound coffee—$
.78
Slab bacon—$.39a pound
Hamburger—3 pounds for $1.00
Jell-O—3 packets for $.25
Kool-Aid—6 packets for $.25
Wheaties—2–12 oz. packages for $.43
Bananas—2 pounds for $.33
Big Jo Flour—50 lbs for $3.95
What a difference, he thought, between the huge Harlow Company, with its national advertising budget, and the little mercantile found only in Link Lake. What groceries his family bought they got from the Link Lake Mercantile. And his mother did buy Mother Harlow's Dills; after all, he worked for the Harlow Company.
He read the movie ads for the Palace Theater in Willow River. He had planned to take Amy to a movie one night when she was home, but that didn't happen. She would have enjoyed the current attraction, Susan Slept Here, with Dick Powell and Debbie Reynolds, or next week's show, The Country Girl, with Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, and William Holden. But she had left on the train to Racine without as much as a good-bye to Andy.