by Jerry Apps
“Jake,” Floyd Jenks said, now standing and looking his neighbor right in the eye. “I don't give a shit what he thinks. I don't give a shit what the entire damn University of Wisconsin thinks. They ain't but a bunch of overeducated bastards trying to tell us how we should lead our lives. A bunch of overeducated bastards.” More clapping.
“We've had this school goin’ for seventy-five years,” Floyd continued. “My pa went to school here, I went to school here, and my kids go here now. By God, it was good enough for Pa, and it was good enough for me, and it's good enough for my kids. Let's all get the hell out of here and get on home ’fore the storm breaks.”
“If I could have another moment,” Professor Jensen said. He had removed his perspiration-soaked bow tie, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck, and rolled up his sleeves.
“As I said earlier, I attended a one-room school, as did my father and grandfather, and we got reasonably good educations. But the world is changing, and the one-room country schools can't provide what our children need for the future.” Now it was time for the other side of the room to clap.
“Your children need more mathematics, more science with laboratory opportunities, more everything. You can't expect one teacher to handle all eight grades anymore. She just can't know everything that needs to be taught. It is humanly impossible.” The rumble of thunder almost drowned out his last words.
“It is not 1900 anymore. Everything is changing, and quickly. How many of you have switched from horses to tractors? How many of you no longer milk cows by hand? How many of you still read by the light of a kerosene lamp? How many of you have a television set?” As the professor asked questions, people's hands went up. A few Rose Hill farmers still used horses on occasion, but almost all of them, with the exception of one or two, had tractors as well. Only one family in the school district did not have electricity, and these were the only people who did not raise their hands when asked if they had television sets.
The first gust of wind from the storm rattled the windows on the south side of the old building, and a welcome burst of cool air flowed into the room.
People began to listen to the professor. Most had their minds made up before they entered the building. They were either in favor of closing the school or they were not. But now most could not argue with the white-haired man at the front of the room. He continued, “Jonas Salk did the first tests of a polio vaccine just three years ago. And you all know about polio and the terrible toll it took on our young people.” There were nods of agreement.
“To have more Jonas Salks, our children need the best possible mathematics and science educations they can get.”
Floyd Jenks was listening to all this with one eye on the window and the approaching storm. He interrupted in a loud voice, “But our kids are gonna be farmers. They don't need a fancy education to work on a farm. In fact, they get too much learnin’ and they'll leave for the cities.”
Jensen thought he might be in trouble with his next line of argument, but he decided to pursue it anyway. He pushed back on his rolled-up sleeves. “We won't need as many farmers in the future. With new technology, one farmer can do the work of many. Our rural young people will need to find jobs off the farm, and for that they need the best education they can get.”
He barely got the last words out of his mouth when the room nearly erupted. No matter what their position on closing the Rose Hill School, the idea of their children having to leave the farm just didn't go down right, like trying to swallow blood sausage when you couldn't stomach the idea of how it was made.
A brilliant flash of lightning and an almost simultaneous clap of thunder shook the old building. Lightning had struck one of the big oak trees just beyond the pump house, but many in the room thought it had hit the school. Two women screamed. Several children began crying. The lights blinked twice and then went out, throwing the room into total darkness. A driving rain began sifting through the open windows as the angry crowd tried to find the door in the dark.
Jake Stewart found a kitchen match in his pocket and struck it against a school desk. The dim flickering light was enough for people to find the door and move down the schoolhouse steps in search of their cars. The rain came off the schoolhouse roof in torrents. As people hurried, they turned to look back, to see if the schoolhouse had been struck by lightning. But it stood straight and tall, as it had for seventy-five years. A good number hoped it would stand straight and tall for another seventy-five.
Professor Jensen was left standing alone on the front steps of the old schoolhouse, in the rain and dark.
14
Salt Bin
With the soaking rain, no cucumbers could be picked the following morning. The crew at the pickle factory needed a break. But there was no time for relaxation. Helen needed to keep the records up-to-date, the cucumber sorter required cleaning and oiling, several wooden cucumber boxes had loose slats and needed re-nailing, and broken boards covering the pickle vats called for repair. But the big job for the day was emptying a boxcar-load of salt that had arrived sometime in the night, when the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad's northbound freight had unhooked the car and located it on the railroad's pickle factory siding.
Andy noticed the salt car when he arrived at the factory—he had been expecting it but hadn't known the exact date it would come. He pulled open the boxcar door to see salt, tons of it, piled about four feet high. A wooden gate prevented the loose salt from tumbling out when the car door was pulled open.
Andy considered which workers he should ask to shovel salt—the procedure required two men standing in the car, shoveling salt onto an electric-powered canvas conveyor belt that moved the material from the railcar to the salt bin. A third person worked in the bin, shoveling the salt around so it filled uniformly. All three jobs were backbreaking, miserable work. The inside of the car was stifling hot, and it was even warmer in the windowless salt bin.
Helen Swanson arrived shortly after Andy, all smiles and bubbly.
“Hi there, Andy,” she said as she walked into the office. For the first time in many months she felt like her old self, thanks to Preacher's skilled counseling and personal attention. Talk around the pickle factory about the two of them didn't bother her. But she was a little miffed hearing the rumors spreading to downtown Link Lake where a bunch of busybody old women were always looking for juicy gossip. It was none of their business.
Helen snapped on the little Philco radio that stood on her desk, and the factory filled with the sounds of hit songs that Helen enjoyed: “Unchained Melody,” “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,” “Earth Angel,” “You My Love” sung by Frank Sinatra, Doris Day doing “Love Me or Leave Me.”
Preacher arrived next. He stuck his head in the office door, said hi to Helen, and then asked Andy what he should do.
“Why don't you start cleaning the sorter,” Andy said. “Scrape the crud off the sorter bars first; farmers are complaining they aren't getting many number-one cucumbers these days. They may be right. With all the dirt on the sorter bars, it takes a smaller cucumber to make number one. Got to fix that, or Johnson will be on me. Got a carload of salt to unload, too. May ask you to help with that once Quarter Mile and Blackie get here.”
Agnes slowly climbed the steps to the factory floor and then walked over to where Andy and Preacher worked at the sorter.
“Good mornin’,” she said as a big smile spread across her face. “Say, do you know what happens when two bullets marry?”
“No, what happens when two bullets marry?” Andy responded with a smile.
“They have a BB.”
Andy and Preacher both rolled their eyes.
“Hey, what's up this mornin’? Kinda wet for pickin’ cukes, ain't it?”
“How about helping Preacher clean up the sorter until the other two get here. Got salt to unload today, and it feels like it's gonna be a hot muggy one. No fun shoveling salt on a day like this, but we gotta do it. Almost out of salt.”
Quarter Mile Sweet and
Blackie Antonelli arrived at the same time, parking their cars under the big shade trees west of the pickle factory. They did not so much as acknowledge each other's existence as they climbed the factory steps side by side.
“What do we do today?” Blackie asked Andy. “Doubt we'll see many cukes until this afternoon.”
“Salt car came in last night. I want you and Quarter Mile to unload it. Preacher here will work in the salt bin. You can take your time, but we gotta have it unloaded before we leave tonight.”
Blackie had helped unload the car in other years, so he knew where to find the conveyor and how to set it up with one end in the boxcar and the other in the salt bin. Soon salt was spilling off the end of the conveyor into the salt bin, where Preacher was shoveling it into the corners.
Quarter Mile and Blackie, both stripped to their waists, were soon dripping sweat as they stood ankle-deep in the salt, one on each side of the conveyor, taking turns shoveling salt onto the canvas belt. They tried to ignore each other.
They had worked for about an hour when it happened. Andy later tried to piece together how the fight had started, but as is usually the case with these kinds of altercations, it depended on whom you asked. Blackie said that Quarter Mile started the fight, and Quarter Mile said it was Blackie who threw a shovel full of salt on him and started it all.
Around eleven o'clock Andy heard loud words coming from the salt car. “You sonofabitch,” Quarter Mile yelled in a voice that could be heard at the sawmill a couple hundred yards away.
“You college bastard,” Blackie said in an equally loud voice.
Andy rushed to the salt car. He quickly noticed that no more salt was moving up the conveyor belt. Blackie sat astride Quarter Mile, pounding him in the face. Then Quarter Mile struck Blackie in the nose, and blood squirted out like a faucet had opened. It quickly soaked into the salt, leaving a red stain on the white surface.
“What in hell you guys doing?” Andy said as he peered through the door of the boxcar.
Agnes and Preacher rushed over to the salt bin, followed quickly by Helen.
The young men staggered to their feet. Blood continued streaming from Blackie's nose.
“The bastard busted my nose,” Blackie said, putting his hand to his face. “God damn you, Quarter Mile, you busted my nose.” Blackie's long hair was so covered with salt that it looked white.
Quarter Mile gasped for breath, his sides heaving. Blood streamed from a cut above his right eye, nearly blinding him. The incredible pain of salt in the cuts was evident in his expression.
“This damn dago sonofabitch threw salt on me,” he blurted out. At those words, Blackie took a huge swing at Quarter Mile and missed, falling into the salt. Immediately Quarter Mile was on top of him.
Once again they rolled in the salt, pounding each other unmercifully.
“Stop it!” Andy yelled. But it was like talking to the wind.
“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Preacher said reverently.
“Quit your damn fighting!” Andy yelled again. But there was no response from the two young men, both bleeding profusely.
“I'm bettin’ my money on Quarter Mile,” Agnes said. “Anybody put any money on Blackie?”
“Betting is a sin,” said Preacher
“You're not helping things, Agnes,” Andy said.
“Could see this comin’,” Agnes said.
“This is not something for you to see, Helen,” Preacher said, motioning for her to return to the office. Helen ignored him.
Andy rolled the boxcar door shut and let the two young men have at it. It was the only thing he could think to do.
“Maybe this will clear the air,” Agnes said, seeming to agree with Andy's action.
“Violence solves nothing,” Preacher said, looking at Agnes.
With the door shut, for a few minutes only muffled yells could be heard from inside; then it was quiet.
Andy yanked open the door. Blackie lay half-buried in the salt, blood streaming from his broken nose and from several other cuts on his face. Quarter Mile, also bleeding profusely from cuts above both eyes, stood over him, glaring. His sweaty body was covered with salt.
“Guess I bet right, brains over brawn every time. I'll get the water hose,” Agnes said, not waiting for a response to her comment.
Andy and Preacher dragged Blackie to his feet and helped him from the salt car. With the hose, Agnes washed the salt and gore from Blackie. Then she cleaned off Quarter Mile. He didn't look the worse for the fight, except for his right eye, which was rapidly swelling shut.
“Better get Blackie to a doctor,” Preacher said. Helen volunteered to drive him to the Link Lake Clinic.
Andy now faced three problems. The car was only half-unloaded. He had to write a report to J. W. Johnson about Blackie's injuries. And he was quite sure he'd have to hire a short-term replacement for Blackie. The first problem he solved by ordering Quarter Mile Sweet back into the salt car, bruised and battered as he was, and scarcely able to see out of one eye. Andy joined Quarter Mile shoveling salt, something he hadn't done since the first year he was manager. After a few minutes, he once more discovered how miserable the job was.
As much as Quarter Mile must have hurt and however much his wounds stung with all the salt in them, he shoveled all afternoon without complaint. Thankfully, the first load of cucumbers did not arrive until after supper, so Andy and Quarter Mile were able to shovel without interruption.
Andy and Quarter Mile were still shoveling salt when Blackie and Helen returned from the clinic. Blackie got into his car and left, not even coming inside the pickle factory. Helen told Andy that Blackie had a broken finger along with a broken nose, and that the doctor had ordered him to take a few days off work.
Andy asked Helen to fill out an accident report stating that Blackie Antonelli had been injured while shoveling salt—it was the truth. J. W. Johnson didn't need to know the details of the matter, although he would probably ask how a worker could receive a broken nose while shoveling. Andy decided to tell Johnson, if he asked, that Blackie had slipped and fallen on the conveyor belt. When he told his plan to Helen, she raised an eyebrow.
“Well, it could have happened that way,” Andy said.
“Sure,” Helen said, smiling. “But I won't tell.”
Now Andy knew he would need to replace Blackie for a few days. The crew couldn't handle several truckloads of cucumbers; three loads from Jake Stewart's thirty-acre cucumber field would roll in that night alone.
George Roberts had worked at the pickle factory a year ago but had gone off on a drinking binge and hadn't shown up for three days. Andy had called his home and told him not to bother showing up for work again, and he hadn't. Roberts had applied again this season, but Andy hadn't called him.
When he wasn't drinking, Roberts was a good worker. He was fifty years old and had worked for twenty-five years at the sawmill. They fired him when he came to work drunk one day. A sawmill was dangerous enough when everyone was sober—drinking could not be condoned.
The pickle factory had its dangers, too, but nothing compared to a sawmill.
Now Andy had his back against the wall. He called George. “It's Andy Meyer over at the pickle factory,” he said when George answered the phone. “How you feeling?”
“Feelin’ good, Andy. Feelin’ good.” George replied. When George was drinking, he was one mouthful of complaints—everything about him hurt, it seemed.
“Took the cure over in Oshkosh last month. Took the cure, Andy. No more boozin’. Cold sober I am these days, Andy. Cold sober.”
“You like to work over here at the pickle factory for a few days? One of the men got hurt and is home recuperating.”
“What time you want me, Andy? I'll come whenever you say. Come whenever you say.”
“How about tomorrow morning at eight?”
“I'll be there Andy. Be there with bells on, Andy. Yesiree.”
Shorthanded, it took the pickle factory crew until well past midnight to compl
ete the sorting and salting. By the time he left for home, Quarter Mile's right eye was completely swollen shut. Andy wondered what he would tell his mother; he expected a call from her—and he decided to tell her the truth about what happened.
When he got home that evening, he learned from his folks that their longtime neighbor Allan Clayton had died of a massive heart attack. It had not been a good day.
15
George Roberts
As he had promised, George Roberts reported at the pickle factory promptly at eight the next day. Andy was waiting for him, hoping he was sober. “Well, I'm here, Andy. Here, just like I said I would be.” George had a three-day growth of mostly gray whiskers that gathered in clumps around his jaw line. As they shook hands, Andy took his breath—and smelled cigarettes, but no alcohol. He remembered that George was a heavy smoker.