In a Pickle: A Family Farm Story

by Jerry Apps

  The horses, Frank and Claude, didn't come in the barn but pastured and grew fat and lazy as the summer work slowed. The Farmall H tractor did the heavy work on the farm these days.

  “Hi, Andy,” Isaac said when Andy pulled open the barn door and entered. Something about his dad's voice wasn't the same as usual.

  “Something wrong, Pa?”

  “Got a letter today from the Link Lake Cheese Factory. It's layin’ up there by the milking machine pump.”

  Andy saw the brown envelope, picked it up, and removed the letter inside. It began:

  Dear Link Lake Cheese Factory Patron:

  Our board at its meeting last week voted to no longer accept milk from patrons who use ten-gallon cans. This ruling will go in effect over three years—we will no longer accept milk shipped in cans as of January 1, 1958. We are encouraging our patrons to purchase bulk cooling tanks as soon as possible.

  We know this may be a burden for our producers with smaller dairy herds, but to continue to ensure the quality of our product, we feel the decision is necessary. Handling milk cans is hard work for our milk haulers. Keeping these cans clean is also a challenge—we use enormous resources for can washing each day.

  As a valued patron for many years, we know you will understand our need for progress. We stand ready to offer loans to those of you who wish to purchase a bulk tank. We have already made arrangements with a bulk tank company to provide tanks to our customers at a reduced rate.

  Sincerely,

  Oliver Sorensen

  Manager, Link Lake Cheese Factory

  “We can't afford no bulk tank, Andy, and I ain't about to take a loan from the cheese factory. Poor old Jake Stewart's all caught up in loans from the H. H. Harlow Company to the point that he may not crawl out of the hole he's in. Besides, where in hell would we put a bulk tank? We'd have to build a new milk house on one end of the barn. And then that bastard Sorensen at the cheese factory will want us to put in a pipeline milking machine—you know, the kind that pipes the milk directly from the cow to the bulk tank. Expect they'll offer loans for that too,” Isaac continued, with a cynical edge to his voice. “You know what this is all about, don't you Andy?”

  “I expect so, Pa,” Andy said.

  “It's all about driving us small farmers off the land. That's what it's about and I don't know what to do about it. Don't know what to do. It's a case of fighting them ‘get bigger’ bastards, joining ’em, or gettin’ the hell out of the way. And you can't really fight ’em. You knock off one, and two more pop up in their place. It's just a bitch, what's going on in this country. Them big businesses jerking us little guys around, putting a collar around our necks and leading us like we was some anemic little city dog that ain't got enough gumption to even bark. Those of us who stay in farming are gonna be like that, Andy, like one of them little white dogs. I saw a tourist dragging one down Main Street the other day. Poor damn little dog could only yip; expect if it would bark it'd probably rupture itself. We're gonna be like that, Andy. Like that miserable little white dog with a red ribbon tied on its head.”

  “I don't think we're quite like little dogs yet,” Andy said, chuckling. “But let me add another verse to that song you're singing.”

  “What's that?”

  Andy told his father about the pickle factory closing, his being let go, and Harlow's decision to not buy any more cucumbers from small acreage growers.

  Andy's father got red in the face when he heard the news. “One goddamn thing after another. I told you, them big companies are out to get us.”

  “Appears that way, Pa.”

  Father and son stood looking at each other, neither speaking for a moment.

  “It's a bitch, ain't it, Andy? It's just a bitch what's going on. If we was to have a bulk tank, we'd have to milk at least thirty or forty cows to make it pay. If we had that many cows, we'd have to put an addition on the barn. We'd have to borrow money to do that, plus build a new milk house and buy a pipeline milking machine. Tell you the truth, Andy, I don't know what we should do. And now you tell me that we can't grow a pickle patch anymore, that Harlow won't buy our cucumbers.”

  “They'll buy them, but you got to grow at least twenty acres and have a contract with them.”

  “What they did to you, Andy, firing you on the spot, and now they expect me to sign a contract with them? To hell with them. To hell with that J. W. Johnson who was stomping around in our pickle patch like he owned the place.”

  “They fired Johnson, too.”

  “Well, that's good. He had it coming. He was a worthless pup. Could tell from the day I first saw him. A worthless pup. Sure wouldn't put you and Johnson in the same gunnysack, but sounds like Harlow did. Put you both in the same sack and dropped it in the river so's you'd drown together. That company turned out to be a bunch of bastards. Real bastards.”

  “Got a letter from Amy Stewart today,” Andy said quietly.

  “Saw the envelope. What'd she want?”

  “Wants to talk.”

  “Talk, huh,” a slow smile spread across Isaac Meyer's face.

  “That's what she said. She also said she was coming home to help her dad on the farm, said Jake had gotten into some money problems.”

  “I guess we all know about Jake's problems don't we? He's a good example of what happens when you crawl in bed with the big guys.”

  “You don't know the half of it, Pa. According to Johnson, Harlow wants to loan Jake more money to put in more acres.”

  “More acres of rotten cukes?” Isaac sounded disbelieving. “I don't know what they're thinking.”

  “Maybe thinking they found an indentured servant in old Jake Stewart,” Andy said.

  Isaac shook his head.

  “Amy quit her job at J. I. Case. Be here in a couple weeks.”

  “You gonna talk to her?”

  “I don't know, Pa. With the pickle factory closing and me getting fired, Preacher running off with Helen, and now all this stuff from the cheese factory, I don't know what to think. Don't know what to do.”

  “Amy's a nice girl, Andy, in spite of her old man.”

  “I know that, Pa. But she dumped me for a guy who builds tractors. I'm just supposed to say, ‘Hey, that's alright. Okay to have a fling with a tractor guy. Nothing wrong with that’?”

  “Up to you to figure all that out, Andy.”

  “I know that, Pa.” Andy grabbed a fork and headed for the straw stack outside the barn to gather up some straw for the calf pen.

  That evening, not long after suppertime, the whistle on top of the fire station blew long and loud, summoning the Link Lake volunteer firefighters. The sound could be heard for miles out of town, as it was a clear night with no breeze.

  The local firefighters rushed to the firehouse and climbed on the ancient fire truck, which they'd somehow gotten to run again after it died during the Pickle Parade. The truck chugged down Main Street, a huge cloud of black smoke billowing from its exhaust pipe as it wheezed and backfired.

  The fire was at the end of Main Street, a huge towering blaze that sent gray smoke high into the air. The firefighters immediately unwrapped their fire hose and turned on the water from the truck's tank—there were no fire hydrants in the Village of Link Lake. Why would you have one when your town is next to a lake?

  But the firefighters sprayed not one drop of water on the structure because it was so hopelessly engulfed. They wet down the ground around it so the dry grass wouldn't burn.

  The “Leaning Pickle of Link Lake” was on fire. One of the volunteer firefighters noticed an empty gasoline can nearby, but he kicked it aside and didn't tell anyone that the fire had likely been set. No one needed to know. Nearly everyone in town rushed out to watch the fire demolish the leaning monstrosity. The big pickle stood for the H. H. Harlow Company, which had paid for its construction. Some people cheered, others clapped—showing their hatred toward the H. H. Harlow Company and what it had done to their community.

  The owner of the Link Lake Tap h
auled over a keg of beer and tapped it. “Free beer for everyone,” he announced, and the adults lined up.

  Joe Sagwell from Sagwell's Drug Store and Soda Fountain toted over ice cream and offered free double-dip cones to the kids.

  Someone saw musicians Albert Olson, T. J. Jones, and Louie Pixley in the crowd and suggested they go home and fetch their instruments. They were soon back from their farms and playing the “Beer Barrel Polka.” “Roll out the barrel. We'll have a barrel of fun!” Everyone sang and danced as the big leaning pickle began collapsing on itself, sending sparks high into the air. Some later said the flames were seen as far away as Willow River. The party continued long after the leaning pickle was but a bed of coals, glowing red in the night.

  26

  Decision Time

  Friday, September 16, would be the Link Lake Pickle Factory's last day of operation. This was about the usual closing date for the factory, although because of the spot-rot problem, few cucumbers had been delivered during the past few days. Andy had laid off Quarter Mile and Blackie a couple of weeks ago, and he let Agnes go just yesterday.

  Dewey John stopped by that afternoon. He wanted to do a story about the place, to let people know that this little cucumber-processing plant had been an important part of the community's life for many years. He didn't want people to just forget about it. This happened sometimes when a bachelor farmer died and left no heirs. The poor guy got a little stone in the Link Lake Cemetery with his name, birth date, and date of death, and that was it. In a year or two people forgot about him, almost like he'd never lived at all, hadn't been an important part of the community. One of the things Dewey John tried to do through the newspaper was make sure people and important events weren't forgotten.

  Dewey didn't want people to forget the pickle factory, either. He wanted them to remember how that fading gray building had brought money, and much more, to the community. Beyond the financial help it provided farm families, the old factory had more stories than cucumbers associated with it. Stories provided the core for memories; they deserved to be recorded and passed on from generation to generation.

  And, good newsman that he was, Dewey wanted an update on the preacher affair. He wondered whether Andy Meyer had heard anything more about what happened and where the preacher and the bookkeeper had ended up.

  Andy was working alone in the office when Dewey arrived. He was fussing over some final reports for Harlow that were spread across the old scarred desk.

  “Hi, Andy,” Dewey called as he climbed the steps to the receiving platform and proceeded to the little office with its open door.

  “How you doing, Dewey?” Andy said, looking up from the reports and putting down his pencil.

  “Came to take one more look at the place,” Dewey said.

  “Just look around to your heart's content. Gonna miss this place. Expect the whole community will miss it.”

  Dewey John liked Andy and appreciated his leadership style. He was impressed with how Andy had handled the preacher affair, the factory closing, and his own dismissal as factory manager. And he respected how Andy had handled the women from the Church of the Holy Redeemed. They couldn't let up on him and continued to blame him for ruining the life of their beloved, beyond-reproach preacher. They called Andy everything from the devil's servant to one who condoned debauchery. With such unfounded criticism, Dewey certainly would have overlooked a little more anger on Andy's part, and maybe even a “Why don't you old pious fussbudgets just go to hell” statement or two. But Andy never did anything of the kind. And he had handled the factory closing the same, quiet way. He simply put up Harlow's sign explaining why, and he didn't whine because he had lost his job.

  Andy and Dewey John walked around the deserted factory together, past the old cucumber sorter that had seen better days but with a little tinkering could continue to operate at some other place. Andy mentioned that Harlow would probably move the sorter out to Jake Stewart's farm, now that Jake planned to grow fifty acres of cucumbers next year.

  They walked among the filled pickle vats, the slightly acidic smell of fermenting cucumbers still hanging in the air. They walked by the salt bin, now nearly empty. Andy thought about the fight between Blackie and Quarter Mile, but he didn't bring it up. They climbed down the steps and walked around the outside of the building, peering through the little door to the basement, near where Andy had caught the preacher and the bookkeeper together.

  “Lots of stories here, Dewey. Lots of stories in just the four summers I worked here,” Andy said.

  “Shame to see her close. Darn shame. Be just like closing down the grist mill, or that sawmill there across the tracks, or pulling out the railroad,” Dewey said. He was making notes on the papers on his clipboard.

  “Hard to figure out what's going on in the country,” Andy said. “What's a young guy like me supposed to do? Pa'd never admit it, but seems it was easier for him. All he had to do was take over where his pa left off. And that's what he did. Took over from Grandpa and farmed much as Grandpa did. Of course Grandpa never had electricity, a tractor, or a milking machine.”

  They stopped and stood in the shade of the big old building. “What do you think of the cheese factory's decision not to buy milk from farmers who use milk cans?” Andy asked.

  “All part of what's happening to farmers,” Dewey said.

  “We'll either have to buy more cows or get out of the dairy business. I'm not sure Pa will buy more cows. It all costs money, lots of money, and Pa isn't one to do much borrowing. He saw what happened to poor old Jake Stewart when the spot rot got his cucumbers.”

  “Yeah, it's true. Borrowing money gets more farmers into trouble than about anything else,” Dewey agreed.

  “Know what happened yesterday, Dewey? Darndest thing. Henry Harlow III himself stopped by. The big boss. Never met him before. Heard a lot about him, but never saw him before.”

  “What'd he want? I just talked with him on the phone the other day. He want to apologize for closing the plant and firing you?” Dewey said with a cynical laugh.

  “Nah, can you believe it? He wants to hire me—offered me a job!”

  “Hire you?”

  “Yup. He said I was one of their up-and-coming young managers and he offered me a job in Green Bay to work at their new plant.”

  “Well, that's something. Offered you a job after firing you.”

  “He really never fired me. Johnson said they were closing the pickle factory here, and I wouldn't have a job.”

  “Sounds like firing to me. No pickle factory, no job.”

  “Anyway, Mr. Henry Harlow III says to me, ‘Andy, how'd you like to be production manager at our new plant in Green Bay?’ I suspect I just stood there looking stupid, because that was about the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth. Then he says, ‘We'll pay you $6,000 a year.’ After a little while I say, ‘How much did you say that was?’ And he repeats it, ‘$6,000 a year, with two weeks’ vacation and sick leave.’

  “You know, I have never had a vacation or sick leave. Pa and Ma never had a vacation, ever. Farmers don't take vacations when there are cows to milk. So I say to Mr. Henry Harlow III, who stands there in his fancy dress pants, shiny black shoes, and a going to church shirt and tie, ‘I'll have to think it over.’”

  “That's one fancy job offer,” Dewey managed to blurt out. “I didn't know of anybody pulling down that kind of money in Link Lake.”

  “Expect not,” Andy said.

  “You going to take the job?” Dewey asked, looking Andy in the eye.

  “I don't know. I just don't know. Pa wants me to take over the farm; I know he does, even with all the changes that are coming down the road. And I think I could make a go of it, too.”

  “You still dating Jake Stewart's girl?”

  “Not really. She's been off working in Racine, you know. For J. I. Case. Dumped me back in July. Sent me a Dear John letter.”

  “Jeez, what got into her?” Dewey said.

  “Some guy in t
he tractor plant got her attention.”

  “Yup, know how that goes.”

  “Wrote to me the other day and said she dropped the tractor guy and wants to talk. Said she was coming back to work with her dad.”

  “You gonna talk to her?”

  “Don't know. Old Jake isn't very subtle about his daughter and her future. It's pretty clear that he wants me to marry her and take over his big operation. I suppose I could make it work, too. But don't know if I want to.”

  “Get the girl, get the farm. Sounds like a deal to me,” John said.

  “Maybe. But I just can't see big-stakes farming. I saw Jake suffering through the summer.”

  “So what are you gonna do? Work with your dad, take the job in Green Bay, or marry the girl and work out a deal with her old man?”