In a Pickle: A Family Farm Story

by Jerry Apps

  “I don't know. I just don't know,” Andy said.

  27

  Another Mystery

  Dewey John walked into the newspaper office the morning after he visited the pickle factory. He heard the phone ringing and expected the call was from someone asking if he thought it might freeze tonight. Dewey didn't know why people thought he'd know about the weather. It had rained all night, and a cold front was blowing through. And it could freeze. Here it was only September 17, and much of the corn was not yet ripe. An early season frost would really cap it off for the farmers who had lost their cucumber crops to disease and now could lose their corn crops as well. Early autumn weather in central Wisconsin was unpredictable, always had been, probably always would be. After endless days of warm, summery weather, just like that, a cold rain will blow in from the northwest, the sky will clear, and the temperature will drop like a lead sinker in a barrel of water.

  “This here is Marshal Quick,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Just got a call from Tiny Urso, one of Jake Stewart's hired men. He's the big guy who stutters—took him forever but he finally spit out that Jake has come up missing. You wanna ride out there with me? Might be a story.”

  Dewey said he knew who Tiny Urso was and that he'd be ready when the marshal stopped by the newspaper office. He grabbed up his Rolleiflex camera, several rolls of 120 Tri-X film, and his clipboard.

  They drove out to Jake Stewart's farm with the marshal doing most of the talking. He jabbered on about kids who'd just gotten their drivers’ licenses and were driving up and down Main Street on Saturday nights.

  “They drive down by the grist mill, turn around, and then head on north by the Standalone Cemetery, turn around, and do it again. They ain't speeding, just creating a nuisance, especially for the tavern-goers who wanna cross the street. These guys with half a buzz on, they're the ones who think I oughta fine these kids for driving on Main Street.”

  “Yup, I've noticed the kids on Saturday nights, too,” Dewey said. But he wasn't thinking about kids; he was thinking about what they'd find at Jake's farm. He wondered if Jake had up and run away. It wouldn't be like him, though. But he'd really gotten himself in a financial mess.

  The marshal went on. “Yeah, those same guys that complain about the kids driving on Main Street, they're the ones who would really snort if I stopped them for driving drunk. I stopped old Jeremy Aldrich the other night, and he started yelling like a stuck pig. He stunk like a brewery. Said I had no right to stop him. He reminded me that his taxes were payin’ my salary. I agreed that he probably paid some of my salary and then I gave him a ticket. He was mad as hell. Said he was gonna bring it up with the mayor. I said, ‘Go ahead.’ Some days this job can be a bitch.”

  “Sounds that way,” Dewey said, not really listening to the marshal's litany, but more concerned about Jake Stewart.

  “You know this hired man, Urso?” the marshal asked, finally changing the subject.

  “Know who he is, that's about all,” Dewey said.

  “Well he's got quite a story. He's a big guy, maybe six-and-half-feet tall and weighing right around two-fifty, and you know he's got a stuttering problem.”

  “Don't think I've ever seen him.”

  “And I bet you didn't know what happened one day at the Link Lake Cooperative Store.”

  “No, I didn't hear that story,” Dewey answered, now well aware he was going to get all the details.

  “Well, one day the co-op hires a guy who also stutters. Tiny stops at the cooperative to pick up something, and the two stutterers, neither knowing the other has a speech problem, face each other.

  “‘Wh-wh-wh-what c-c-can I do for you,’ the fellow at the cooperative asks.

  “‘I-I-I-I n-n-n-n-need some block salt,’ says Tiny.

  “‘You-you-you-you-you mockin’ me?’ the feed store fellow says. He's a big man, too, but not Tiny's size.

  “‘N-n-n-n-no,’ says Tiny.

  “‘Wa-w-w-w-well it sounds like it to m-m-m-me.’

  “The two of them almost get into a fight before they figure out that they each got the same problem. They then shake hands, and they've been good friends ever since. It's something to hear the two of them carry on a conversation, really something.”

  “I'll bet it is,” Dewey said. He could see the driveway into the Stewart yard a short distance ahead.

  Everything looked normal when they pulled in. Since Jake's wife died, the flowerbeds alongside the house were empty and the lawn was seldom mowed. The barnyard fence needed a new coat of paint, and the barn did, too, for that matter. It was obvious that Jake had more things on his mind than keeping his farmstead neat and tidy.

  Dewey noticed that Jake's big Buick was parked by the house and his pickup stood by the tractor shed, so he could tell Jake didn't drive off in one of his own vehicles.

  Tiny Urso stood by the barn waving his arms, directing them that way. Marshal Quick turned off the engine of the squad car, adjusted his hat, and hitched up his belt with the .38 revolver hanging on the side. John gathered up his camera and clipboard.

  “I-I-I-I can't find Jake,” Tiny stammered. “He-he-he-he-he's missing.”

  “Have you checked at the house?” the marshal asked Tiny matter-of-factly.

  “Y-y-y-yeah, I did.”

  “Not there, huh?”

  “N-n-n-no, not there.” Tiny was perspiring and obviously quite upset.

  “Did you look in the barn?”

  “Y-y-y-yeah, I did.”

  “Not there either?”

  “N-n-n-not there either.”

  “Where do you suppose he is?”

  “D-d-d-d-don't know. It's-it's-it's-it's why I-I-I-I-I called.”

  “Well, we better have a look around, then,” the marshal said, “make sure he's not here someplace before we start assuming that he's somewhere else.” Dewey had always marveled at Marshal Quick's great sense of logic, and this was a classic example. If a fellow isn't here, then he must be someplace else—a line of thinking that started with the assumption that everybody must be someplace. The marshal often reminded Dewey of that when people came up missing. He remembered when he and the marshal had discussed the disappearance of the preacher and the pickle factory bookkeeper. The marshal had wanted Dewey to quote him in the paper: “Everbody's got to be someplace, no getting around it. If they ain't here, then they're somewhere else.”

  That's how his mind worked. Everything was pretty much black and white, right or wrong, and simple as hell. His was not a complicated world.

  They looked in the haymow of the barn, recently filled with baled hay. They looked through the lower part of the barn, where the cows were milked each morning and night. They looked in the tractor shed and the granary.

  “Anything unusual happening around here the last day or so?” the marshal asked Tiny Urso.

  “N-n-no, c-c-c-can't think of anything.”

  “Any visitors?”

  “O-o-o-only the trucker from Ha-ha-Harlow Pickle Company. Br-br-brought a load of fer-fer-fertilizer yesterday afternoon. B-b-b-big load.”

  “Where'd he put it?”

  “O-o-over there.” Tiny pointed to a large new metal shed that Jake had put up earlier that spring.

  They walked over to the shed, and Tiny pulled open the big sliding door. Immediately they saw a huge pile of hundred-pound 3-12-12 fertilizer sacks spilled all over the floor. Each sack was green and had the words “H. H. Harlow” emblazed on its side in large print.

  “Da-da-damn pile tipped over,” Tiny stammered.

  “Sure did,” the marshal replied, once more restating the obvious.

  “Can't say as I've ever seen this much fertilizer in one pile,” Dewey said, as he walked around the tangled mess of fertilizer sacks scattered all over the shed floor.

  “’B-b-bout fifteen ton,” Tiny said.

  “Well, I don't see any sign of Jake in here. Anyplace else you can think to look?” the marshal asked. He cracked his knuckles, hitched up his b
elt, and fingered the handle of his pistol.

  “W-w-w-what's that?” Tiny asked, pointing to something sticking out from under the fallen stack of fertilizer sacks.

  “Looks like an old shoe,” the marshal replied.

  Dewey and the marshal pulled away a couple of sacks of fertilizer and discovered a leg attached to the shoe.

  “Oh-oh-oh,” was all that Tiny could say as the three of them uncovered the body of Jake Stewart. He had been crushed when the big pile of H. H. Harlow fertilizer sacks tumbled on top of him.

  Dewey took several pictures, trying to avoid Jake's face, which was a horrible sight, all black and blue and crushed on one side.

  “Gotta call the coroner,” Marshal Quick said. “Coroner's got to have a look at this. The house open?”

  Tiny Urso shook his head up and down. He looked like he was going to throw up.

  Dewey John followed the marshal to the house. While the marshal was calling the coroner, Dewey couldn't help but see a short, handwritten letter on the table, near some dirty dishes. The letter read:

  Dear Dad,

  I'm coming home. I'm sorry you're having all these problems and I think I can help. I quit my job at J. I. Case today, and I'll be home next week.

  I miss you, Dad.

  Love, Amy

  28

  Remembering Jake

  In extra large print, the headline of the Link Lake Gazette read, “Prominent Farm Leader Dies in Freak Accident.” A two-column story followed. “Jake Stewart, 65, was found Saturday under a large pile of fertilizer bags on his rural Link Lake farm.” The story went on to detail the events of Stewart's death, including a half-page photo of the toppled fertilizer bags with a visibly upset Stewart employee, Tiny Urso, standing nearby.

  Some wags in Link Lake thought it was suicide, as many people suspected Jake had financial problems, especially since the spot-rot disease wiped out his thirty acres of cucumbers. But the coroner's report was clear and quoted in the newspaper. “Cause of death: farm accident.”

  The news story concluded, “The funeral will be held at the Link Lake Methodist Church on Friday at 11:00 a.m. with internment at the Link Lake Cemetery following the services. Lunch will be served by the women of the church following the internment.”

  Dewey John also wrote an editorial.

  JAKE STEWART REMEMBERED

  Not everyone always agreed with Jake Stewart, but everyone respected him as a leader in this part of Wisconsin. When farmers still planted an acre or two of cucumbers, Jake was willing to take a risk and plant thirty acres. When numerous farmers believed that a country-school education was good enough for their children, Jake argued long and hard that rural children deserved an education comparable to children in urban areas.

  When many farmers were skeptical of the university's College of Agriculture and its teachings, Jake Stewart embraced it. He became a close friend of the county extension agent and also with a College of Agriculture cucumber researcher, who spent many hours at the Stewart farm.

  We will all remember Jake Stewart for his sincerity, his love of farming, his competitive nature, and his willingness to try something new. He is survived by his daughter, Amy, who until recently was employed by the J. I. Case Company in Racine.

  Of course the discussion at the grist mill, in the saloons, at Korman's restaurant, at the cheese factory, and wherever people gathered was about Jake Stewart's farm and what was going to happen to it.

  “Heard that Lake National Bank's gonna take it all,” one farmer from the east side of town proclaimed, as he sipped a glass of beer at the Link Lake Tap. “Yup, that's what them banks do. You get in trouble and they come down on you. Take your land away faster'n you can say, ‘This was once my granddaddy's farm.’ Them damn bankers just don't care. Miserable bunch they are.”

  Fellow next to him agreed. “Yes sirree, that's likely what's gonna happen. Bank'll take over the farm, then sell it. Wonder's who's gonna buy it? Big place. Thousand acres, you know.”

  “City guys, that's who. City guys are buyin’ up all the vacant land around here. Buyin’ it for a summer place and a place to hunt,” another regular at the bar chimed in. He had just drained his glass and held it up to the bartender for a refill.

  “Know what I heard?” a local livestock hauler chimed in. “I heard old Jake's daughter, Amy, is taking over the place and running it just like her old man did.”

  “Where'd ya hear that?”

  “Heard it over in Willow River when I was delivering pigs this morning. Everybody's talking about Jake's farm, even over there. Nobody in these parts has a farm as big as old Jake Stewart's. Fellow I talked with knew Amy, said he went to high school with her. ‘She's a smart one,’ the fellow said.”

  The stories began spreading around, most of them not built on a shred of truth.

  On Wednesday afternoon, a big Buick pulled into the Meyer farmstead and stopped near the kitchen door; Andy, Isaac, and Mary were just about to sit down for supper before Andy and his dad would go out to the barn to do the evening milking.

  “Looks like old Jake's car,” Isaac said. “Yup, it is, and it's Amy driving. Poor thing, wonder how she's taking all this?”

  Amy, wearing a dark dress, walked up to the kitchen door and knocked lightly.

  “Come in, Amy. Come in,” Mary said. “It's good to see you. We're just so sorry about your dad. So sorry. Everybody's sorry. Such a shock. Are you hungry? We'll set another place.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said quietly. Her eyes were red from crying.

  Andy got up quickly and found a chair on the far side of the kitchen.

  “Here, Amy,” Andy said. “Sit down.” He held the chair for her.

  “Thank you, Andy,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “It's so good to see you,” she said in a near whisper as she sat down.

  Andy stood holding Amy's chair, trying to think of the right words to say.

  “I have a favor,” Amy said.

  “Anything at all, Amy. Anything at all,” Isaac said.

  “Would you . . .” Amy hesitated a bit as if to collect herself. “Would you and Andy be pallbearers at Pa's funeral?”

  “Of course we will. Be proud to do it,” Isaac said. “I guess I knew Jake longer than just about anybody around here. Expect he was the first kid I ever played with. Walked to school with him for eight years, too. We had good times, your pa and me,” Isaac said.

  “I'll ask some of the other neighbors, too. And maybe Ole Olson from the mill in town,” Amy said.

  “Nobody will turn you down, Amy. Not at a time like this,” Isaac said. “Yup, Jake and I go back a long time. Chased girls together. Bet you didn't know that your pa once had his eye on Mary here. Bet you didn't know that?”

  “Now Isaac, Amy doesn't want to hear about that sort of thing,” Mary interrupted. She had gotten up to tend to the supper on the stove.

  “Then we watched each other farm. I'd start plantin’ corn, and then Jake would plant his. He'd start makin’ hay, and then I'd start. We always were lookin’ to see what the other guy was doin’ and when he was doin’ it. Kind of fun, it was. Those years were fun. You and Andy were just little tykes, then. Playin’ in the sand together. Playin’ farmin’. That's what the two of you were doin’. While your pa and me were plantin’ corn, you and Andy were makin’ little rows of corn in the sand box out back of the house.”

  Amy's shoulders began to shake. Then she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Mary was quickly at her side.

  “It's going to work out fine, Amy. Crying can be a good thing sometimes. Remembering good times helps everyone.”

  Andy, not sure what to do, got up and went to the window that looked out toward the barn. He knew he should say something to help Amy, but what? What could he say? What could he do?

  When supper was over, Amy said, “Thank you so much. That was delicious as always.”

  “It's the least we could do, Amy,” Isaac said.

  Mary gave Amy a big hug. “Anyt
ime you want to talk, Amy, you just stop by. These are tough times.”

  Andy walked with Amy to the car. He opened the door for her, but rather than climb into the Buick, she put both arms around Andy and kissed him hard on the lips.

  “I've missed you so much,” she said. “I love you, Andy.”

  “I've missed you, too,” Andy said, a bit surprised. He put his arms around her and held her tight for a few moments.

  Andy stood watching the Buick go down the driveway and onto the country road.

  He made his way out to the barn to do the evening milking, his mind a muddle of tangled thoughts.