In a Pickle: A Family Farm Story

by Jerry Apps

  This was the first Andy had heard about the deal Harlow had offered Jake Stewart. He thought about the sacks upon sacks of cucumbers that had come in from Jake's place, most of them rotted, rejected, sent back to spread on his drying fields.

  “Know what else, Andy? He just up and fired me. Yesterday, when he was tellin’ me all this, he finishes talking about closing the pickle factory and not takin’ pickles from the small acreage growers, and then he says, as an afterthought, ‘Oh, we're firin’ all our district managers, too. We're going for a different approach to management.’ The bastard just up and fires me without even takin’ a breath, puts me in the same category as a little pickle patch. Gone.”

  “Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” Andy said. “Sorry to hear about all this.”

  “Andy, I've got a big favor to ask,” Johnson said, somewhat hesitantly.

  “Yeah?” Andy, said, feeling a little wary.

  “Suppose you could put in a good word for me with the Chicago Pickle Company in Redgranite? I applied for a job there today, and they said I needed some references. Harlow said he'd write a reference, but what in hell kind of reference can I expect from him? Bastard fired me, didn't he?”

  “Suppose I can do that for you, J.W.,” Andy said.

  “I know we didn't get off on the right foot, Andy, and that I was a little hard on you at first. But you're a good man, a good manager, a damn good manager.” Johnson's voice was tight.

  “I'll put in a word for you,” Andy said. He was wondering who would put in a word for him and what extra summer work he might find now that the pickle factory was no more.

  “Thank you,” Johnson said, grabbing Andy's hand and shaking it. “Thank you.” Tears were streaming down the big man's face. “Thank you.” He still held onto Andy's hand, continuing to shake it, apparently forgetting what he was doing. Then he let go, pulled a big green handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose. Remembering the main reason for his visit, he handed Andy a couple of big signs that explained the pickle factory closing and invited farmers to talk with a Harlow representative about signing a contract with them to plant twenty or more acres of cucumbers the following year. A Green Bay phone number and address were printed on the bottom of the poster.

  Johnson's pickup slowly made its way up the driveway. Andy watched the little truck until it was out of sight. He felt sorry for blustery J. W. Johnson, but not nearly as sorry as he did for all the kids and their parents who depended on their pickle patches for a little extra money every year. At least half of these folks had already been dealt a bad hand when the factory had to refuse their cucumbers well before this season ended. But farmers were quite philosophical about these things. “Next year will be better.” Always next year. It's a farmer's mantra. But there would be no next year for families with little pickle patches.

  Andy's dad had grown a small cucumber patch for as long as Andy could remember and years before that as well. He wondered how his dad would take the news about the cucumber factory closing and Harlow insisting that they would buy only from growers who contracted for twenty or more acres, bought their seeds and fertilizers from them, and had them arrange for migrant help.

  He and his father had talked about what they heard happened to Jake Stewart—how he was about to lose some of his land because he couldn't make mortgage payments, and how he was depending on cucumber money to bail him out. Andy knew his father wouldn't think much about the new arrangement Jake was making with the Harlow people, but then what was Jake to do? “Get in bed with the devil and you often have a hard time crawling out,” his father would probably say.

  When Andy got home that afternoon, he saw a letter in a blue envelope propped up on the kitchen table.

  He picked it up and recognized Amy Stewart's handwriting. He had not heard from her since she wrote to him a few days after Link Lake Pickle Days.

  Andy took out his pocketknife, opened the blade, and slit the envelope open. He pulled out and unfolded a sheet of perfumed paper.

  “Dear Andy,” he began reading.

  24

  What Next?

  If ever a guy felt like eating crow, Dewey John did when Andy Meyer called and said that Harlow was permanently closing down the pickle factory in Link Lake and would no longer buy cucumbers from small acreage growers. The editorial he had written defending Harlow for both the spot-rot situation and the preacher debacle now seemed a huge mistake. He was going to be mighty embarrassed when people read about the factory closing.

  He remembered what the owner of the paper said to him when he was first hired as editor: “Dewey, you've got to find the big story before you can write the little one; you've got to know what else is going on in the woods before you can write about the trees.”

  It had taken him a while to figure out what his new boss was talking about, but he had it right. He'd said, “If you're going to write about farms and farming, you'd better learn about rural communities, what holds them together and makes them work. You'd better study country people, what they're like and what keeps them going. And you'd better find who's trying to manipulate them.”

  Dewey wanted to get on the phone to young H. H. Harlow III and give him a piece of his mind—let him know what he was doing to the small family farms in Ames County. But then he reminded himself that he was a newspaperman and wasn't supposed to take sides, except in his editorials.

  Andy had also told Dewey John about J. W. Johnson being fired. Dewey decided to give Johnson a call and get his take on the story. When he asked Johnson what he thought about Harlow's decision to close the pickle factory and fire the district managers, Johnson let loose a string of cuss words that you could hear all the way to Oshkosh. Johnson figured he had been wronged in every way. “That bastard Harlow didn't understand my job.”

  Dewey thanked him for his thoughts and hung up, shaking his head.

  Sometimes one has to take the tiger by the tail, so Dewey John next called the Harlow Pickle Company phone number in Green Bay. He was put on hold for a few minutes, and then Mr. Henry

  H. Harlow III came on the line. Dewey told him he was with the Link Lake Gazette and wondered if Harlow had time to answer a few questions about the Harlow Company's recent decision.

  “Sure,”Harlow said. He sounded friendly enough. “Fire away.”

  “Why did you close the little pickle factory here in Link Lake? It's been here since the 1930s.”

  “Yes, it sure has. It's one of our oldest little factories—really just a salting station, you know; they don't do any processing beyond salting. It's just too out of date. The equipment is old. The salting tanks are worn out. It's not profitable to keep it going.”

  “Any other reasons for closing it?” The editor was fishing for whether or not the bad publicity about spot rot and the preacher affair had anything to do with the company's decision.

  “No. It's all based on economics. We're building a new modern processing plant in Green Bay. We'll not only salt, but we'll make dills, slicers, pickles for the restaurant trade—and we even plan to make kosher dills. The demand is growing for kosher dill pickles, you know.”

  “When's your new plant opening?” John asked, trying to put some kind of positive spin on the story.

  “We hope to be up and running in the spring, in plenty of time for next summer's processing season. I could arrange a special tour of the plant for you—I'll let you know when it's finished.”

  Dewey said he would enjoy a tour. He continued his questioning. “What about your decision to buy only from growers with twenty acres or more of cucumbers? You realize that farm kids with little cucumber patches depend on that money every summer.”

  “The board discussed that at length. It was a tough decision to make. It created a lot of disappointment, I'm sure.”

  “I'm afraid you don't know the half of it,” Dewey replied, trying not to sound too angry.

  “The quality coming from those little patches is too uneven—some growers do a good job, some don't. We've got to h
ave a quality product, and we're just not getting consistent quality from the small cucumber patches.”

  What Dewey wanted to say was that Harlow didn't have any control over the small acreage farmers. What the company wanted was a smaller number of growers, all with contracts, like Jake Stewart. With a contract, farmers had to do exactly what the pickle company ordered them to do.

  “What should I write about your decision? Do you have something you want to say to all these farmers and their kids with the little cucumber patches?”

  “Yes, yes, I do. Tell them that H. H. Harlow regrets the decision we made to quit buying cucumbers from small patches. Tell them to consider growing at least twenty acres of cucumbers next year, and we'll be glad to do business with them.”

  “What about the spot-rot problem?” John asked.

  “That was a temporary problem. A minor setback. We've got a good supply of disease-resistant seed ready for next year.”

  Again Dewey bit his tongue. He wanted to tell Mr. Henry H. Harlow III that spot rot had nearly destroyed Jake Stewart.

  “Have you spoken to Andy Meyer, your factory manager here in Link Lake?” John asked.

  “No, I haven't spoken to him, but I plan to do so soon. On my next trip out your way I'll be speaking to him.”

  “Does closing the pickle factory have anything to do with Andy?” John asked. He needed to know the answer.

  “It has nothing to do with Andy whatsoever. We've always given him high marks. He is one of our better young managers.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Dewey said and hung up. He had a story, a bigger story than spot rot and preacher shenanigans—a story on the same level as the closing of the Rose Hill school.

  When Andy saw that the letter was from Amy, he thought about putting it away without reading further—the day had been lousy enough. But he was curious, so he read on. The letter was carefully written with a fountain pen, in Amy's characteristic handwriting—she was left-handed, so all the letters leaned a little to the left.

  Dear Andy,

  I've wanted to write for a long time, but I just haven't gotten up the nerve. Did my dad tell you that I'm quitting my job and moving back to the farm? As you may know, he's run intosome money problems because of the spot-rot disease. He needs someone to look after the books and see if we can get all this straightened out.

  The guy I was going with turned out to be a real jerk, a city guy with only one thing on his mind, as it turned out.

  Well, how are you? You've had a busy summer at the pickle factory, the way it sounds. Spot-rot problem seemed like a real mess. Dad never said much about how you were handling it. I suspect he had so many problems of his own he didn't notice. He's in pretty deep to the Harlow people.

  You know, Andy, Dad always liked you, ever since you were a little kid and we were playing with your red wagon and you were hauling my dolls around. I think my mother took a picture—I'm sure it's around the house somewhere—of your wagon and my dolls. Since Mom died, Dad hasn't done much in the way of keeping the house in order. I'm sure the picture albums are there somewhere.

  What I'm getting around to, and I know it's taking me awhile—could we get together sometime? I think we've got a lot to talk about, Andy. I'm sure you don't know how much I've missed you. But it's been awful not hearing from you, not talking with you.

  I'll be home in a couple weeks—let me know when we can get together.

  Love, Amy

  Andy carefully folded the letter and shoved it back into his pocket. He ran his hands through his unruly hair, and then he rubbed his leg where he had been wounded. Days when the humidity was high, he was reminded of Korea—a memory he wished he could blot out. He walked out to the barn. He and his dad had things to talk about.

  25

  The Family Farm

  Dewey John couldn't move past the anger he felt, which was mixed with considerable embarrassment. But he had learned a valuable lesson: be careful who you support before doing more research and learning the facts. You may regret your decision. He wrote the following editorial during the week of September 12, to appear the following Wednesday.

  BID BUSINESS AND FARMERS

  By now most people have heard that the H. H. Harlow Pickle Company of Chicago is permanently closing their pickle factory in Link Lake. They plan to open a large, modern cucumber-processing plant in Green Bay. Starting next year the company will not buy cucumbers from a grower who does not have a contract with them. To obtain a contract, a farmer must agree to grow at least twenty acres of cucumbers and abide by Harlow's many rules. A farmer must buy seed and fertilizer from Harlow, plant when Harlow says to plant, and harvest when Harlow says to harvest. The farmer must employ migrant workers who have been recruited by Harlow, with a portion of the migrants’ income going to Harlow.

  The Harlow situation is but one example of what is happening in agriculture. The big meatpacking plants are contracting with farmers and giving them long lists of rules to follow; so are the big poultry-processing companies. Is this what the farmers in our state want? We don't think so. But many farmers see no other way. For them, the choice is to “sell their souls” to big business or get out of farming. Financially, the big agribusiness company may be a farmer's only choice.

  It is a strange twist from the time when a farmer was his own boss, made his own decisions, and reaped the return on his efforts. Now a farmer makes few decisions, and the big agribusiness firm with which he has a contract makes most of the money.

  We believe it is time for farmers to rise up and fight this trend, to reclaim their rightful place as family farmers.

  Ever since Dewey John had moved to Link Lake, he'd been impressed with the small farms scattered throughout this part of central Wisconsin. None were especially prosperous, but these farmers raised their kids, sent them to school, and made enough money to pay their taxes and mortgage payments. The smart ones, and that included most of them, had made enough money during World War II to pay off the mortgages on their farms. Hog prices were good then; so were milk prices. After years of the Depression and then war, these farmers deserved to have things a little better.

  Now, Harlow planned to close the pickle factory and pull the plug on small cucumber patches. What next? Dewey John wondered. He had covered stories of University of Wisconsin agricultural economists coming through town since he arrived in Link Lake in 1951. They preached bigger is better—bigger farms, bigger barns, bigger tractors, more cows, increased acres of crops. The university professors also pushed for big consolidated schools and the closing of one-room country schools. None of these “learned people” talked about the effects of these changes on rural communities.

  Some of Dewey's newspaper friends, especially those in Madison, said he was trying to hold onto a dream, a bit of nostalgia, and the sooner he moved away from the notion of farming as “a way of life” to farming as “a business,” the better off he would be. A friend from the journalism school in Madison who had read his recent editorial said Dewey John was holding back progress with his old-fashioned ideas.

  He typed a quick reply.

  Dear Tom,

  So I'm holding back progress, am I? First, what in hell is progress? Is it progress when farm kids have to leave the land to find work? Is it progress when a farmer has to work night and day, plowing more acres and milking more cows, just so he can make ends meet?

  Is it progress when farmers have to lick the shoes of the big company executives in order to stay in business, to sign contracts that take away nearly all their decision-making ability? Is that what you call progress?

  I'd call what's happening out here in the hinterlands destruction. Blatant destruction of farm life as we have known it since the state was first settled in the 1840s and 1850s.

  Don't you realize what we are giving up when we lose a family farm? It's a way of life, but so much more. We lose people who know the land and how to care for it, who know livestock and how to raise it, who know machinery and how to keep it operati
ng, and who know what community means. That's what will be lost when these family farms disappear.

  What about the businesses in town that depend on these farmers—the grist mills and feed dealers, the hardware stores and the lumberyards? What will happen to these small towns if all these businesses close?

  Dewey John didn't hear back from his friend. He wasn't sure why. He wondered if his letter helped his friend think in a new direction or if Tom had dismissed his comments as those of a crackpot who was living in the past.

  When Andy Meyer got to the barn, his dad was busy scattering feed in the concrete manger in front of the stanchions before allowing the cows into the barn for the afternoon milking. The barn's smells changed with the seasons. Summer included fresh lime spread in back of the cows mixing with the sweet scent of ground feed. The pleasant aromas of dried alfalfa, sweet and red clover, timothy, and brome grass in the haymows on the barn's second floor drifted into the lower reaches of the building where the cows were milked.