In a Pickle: A Family Farm Story
Page 22
The display case also featured freshly cut leaf lettuce, baby beets, new red potatoes, big red radishes, and bunches of dark green broccoli, all from Andy and Amy's fields.
Andy's parents came out in mid-afternoon and helped with final preparations—setting up planks on sawhorses for the food, hauling chairs from the Link Lake Methodist Church, and putting up a sign by the road showing people where they should park.
Dewey John was the first to arrive for the “Big Party,” as he referred to it. He wanted photos of Andy and Amy standing by their new big road sign. No one could miss the huge wild rose, surrounded by the words “Rose Hill Farm Market” and, in smaller print, “Pick your own fruits and vegetables.”
Dewey toured the kitchen and the store, taking photos and asking questions. The earthy smell of fresh vegetables mixed with the sweet smell of newly made jams and jellies. Dewey walked to the hayloft, where the polka dance would be held.
“You've done a lot of work here,” Dewey said as he glanced around the vast expanse of what had been the hay storage area in the old barn. He saw the wooden beams, twelve inches by twelve inches and many feet long that held up the barn. The wooden floor had been scrubbed until it shone.
Soon the neighbors from near and far began arriving, carrying hot dishes, cakes, pies, potato salad, sandwiches of many kinds, baked beans, bowls of fresh strawberries, three-bean salads, and Jell-O (green, red, yellow with shredded carrot). The food table was crowded with plates, platters, and bowls by the time people began lining up to eat.
Pat Patterson, his wife, and their gaggle of red-haired children came. So did Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Wilson, the John Korleskis, Iris Clayton, and Floyd Jenks and his wife. The pickle factory crew from last summer came: Blackie Antonelli; Quarter Mile Sweet, who was to be a sophomore at the university in Madison; Agnes Swarsinski, still cracking jokes; and even George Roberts, who had once more returned from the “cure” in Oshkosh. J. W. Johnson, Andy's former boss at H. H. Harlow, even showed up. “Got me a job at the Link Lake Mercantile,” he said proudly. “Doin’ everythin’ from cuttin’ meat to waitin’ on customers.”
To Andy's pleasant surprise, Carlos Rodríguez and his family, now living year-round on the Harlow property in their new house, came. Mrs. Rodríguez was proudly showing off her new, plump-cheeked baby boy to everyone.
Ole Olson from the mill came, as did the undertaker, John Dobrey, and his wife, driving his big black Oldsmobile funeral car. And of course the little polka band came: Albert Olson the banjo player, Thomas John Jones the fiddler, and Louie Pixley with his concertina. They brought along their wives and children.
There were many more. People were interested in what Andy and Amy were attempting, especially the small farmers in the area. They all wanted to wish the young couple well in their attempt to transform what since 1890 had been a dairy farm into something different.
With the meal finished, and the cleanup completed, Andy invited everyone to the hayloft, where the little polka band was tuning up. The barn was lighted with antique kerosene lanterns that cast a soft yellow glow as the light reflected off of the old wood. Andy thanked everyone for coming and hoped they were having a good time.
Amy then took the floor: “Thank you all so much for helping us launch our new venture. Your being here means a lot to us. We appreciate your support; we'll need lots of it as we go along.” Then she added, “But let's never forget that besides all the hard work, there should be a fun side to farming. Now let's all have some fun.”
With that the band began playing an old-time waltz. Andy and Amy led off, dancing on a wooden floor that once had tons of hay dragged across it. The big wooden beams cast interesting shadows on the floor.
Others joined the young couple, and soon the old haymow floor was crowded with dancers. After the waltz, the band immediately swung into an old tune with a polka beat. “The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be.” The band sang the words and was soon joined by the dancers as they hopped around the floor.
The dancing went on into the night. Polkas, waltzes, circle twosteps. People dancing who hadn't danced in years. Old people dancing who had difficulty walking. Young people dancing, getting acquainted with each other, smiling. Little kids on the dance floor, trying to mimic the older folks, attempting to waltz and polka, but not quite understanding the steps. Fathers dancing with daughters. Sons dancing with mothers. Husbands with two left feet hauled out on the floor by their wives. Men dancing who only knew the beat of a two-cylinder John Deere tractor.
The double set of big barn doors was open, allowing the night air to cool the dancers. The sounds of the party rolled down the country road and across the fields and through the valleys, like a gentle summer breeze.
At about eleven o'clock, Andy noticed Marshal Quick's squad car coming down the road, its red light flashing. The marshal parked his car across the driveway, and the red light continued to rotate.
The marshal walked to the barn, his big white hat pulled nearly down to his ears.
“I'm looking for Mr. Andy Meyer,” the marshal said in his most official voice.
“I'm over here,” Andy said, waving his arm. “Welcome to our party.”
“Mr. Meyer,” the marshal said, “I am not here for a party. I am here on official business.” He touched his hand to the ever-present pistol at his side.
“What official business at this time of night?”
“I have just received a complaint about this gathering.”
“A what?” Andy said.
“A complaint.”
“About what?”
“You are creating a disturbance. You are making too much noise, and all these cars are blocking the road.” The marshal made a sweeping motion with his arm in the direction of the cars that were parked on both sides of the road.
“Who complained?”
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Andy asked.
“Tell the band to quit playing, so the people will go home.”
“Quit playing so the people will go home?”
“That's what I said. Either you tell them, or I'll tell them.”
“You tell them,” Andy said. “You tell them to quit playing.”
“Well, I will,” the marshal said, pulling down his hat and adjusting his gun belt.
The marshal marched across the crowded floor; several polka dancers nearly ran into him before he reached the bandstand. The threesome had just finished playing a polka and were deciding on their next tune.
“Hello, Marshal. Do you have a request?” Albert Olson asked. He rested his banjo on his lap.
“You'll have to stop playin’,” the marshal said.
“I don't think we know that one . . . never even heard of it,” Olson said, smiling.
“You gotta stop playin’,” the marshal said. He was not smiling.
“What?” Olson said, wondering if he'd heard correctly.
“The band must stop playin’.”
“Who says so?” Olson asked.
“I say so,” the marshal huffed.
“All right then, we'll stop,” Olson said.
The dancers parted and the marshal strutted across the floor without looking back. When he got to his car, he turned off the red light and drove slowly into the night, in the opposite direction from the Harlow farm.
The band members had gathered around the lemonade cooler.
“What do we do now?” Andy asked Albert Olson.
“We start playing again. He didn't say how long we should stop.”
Back at the bandstand, Louie Pixley said, “How about the ‘Beer Barrel Polka’?”
The band began playing a louder than usual version of the tune, with all the dancers joining in the singing. The sound tumbled down the country road and through the open windows of the nearby Harlow Research and Conference Center where an international team of plant breeders was holding a late night session.
“The local marshal is taking care of it,” a Harlow representative replied.
Back at their farm, Andy and Amy stood off to the side, watching their friends dance.
“Sure have been a lot of changes this past year,” Andy said.
“It's one thing we can count on,” Amy said.
“I guess change isn't too bad, as long as some things stay the same,” Andy said, smiling.
“Speaking of change,” Amy said, “do you think Andy Jr. will like Rose Hill Farm Pickles?”
“Who?”
“Andy Jr.,” Amy said quietly.
Andy looked at Amy and smiled.
Author's Note
I managed the H. J. Heinz cucumber salting station in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, during the summers of 1952–1955. This story is fiction but is loosely based on my experiences during those years. The characters are all fictional. There was no H. H. Harlow Pickle Company, no Rose Hill School, no Church of the Holy Redeemed, and no Link Lake Gazette.
In the 1950s, cucumbers were a popular cash crop on many central Wisconsin farms, including the one where I grew up. cucumber growing especially fit farmers with several children, as they would help with the hoeing and especially with the picking, which was hard, hot, and back-breaking work. These pickle patches were tiny by today's standards, some only a quarter acre or so in size.
As the fields got larger, migrant workers, whom many called Mexicans even though almost all of them were American citizens from Texas, came to central Wisconsin in July. They worked in the cucumber fields until September, when most of them returned to Texas, so their children could go to school. One year when my father grew two acres of cucumbers, a migrant family, who lived at a neighboring farm, helped us with the picking.
The migrants, by and large, got along well in the community. Most could speak English. They bought their groceries at the local grocery stores. The owner of the Wild Rose Mercantile Store, Arnol Roberts, took some Spanish courses—of course, his business increased once the migrants knew he spoke some Spanish. Many migrants attended the Catholic church in Wautoma, which had a special Spanish mass.
The migrants attended the free outdoor movies on Tuesday night in Wild Rose, sitting on the benches next to the locals. They bought supplies at the hardware stores and purchased clothing at the clothing stores. There were few complaints from either locals or migrants. Most of the farmers, including myself, had never seen a dark-skinned person before the migrants arrived. Nor had we heard anyone speaking Spanish. We were, of course, accustomed to hearing German, Polish, or perhaps Norwegian spoken, but Spanish sounded different.
By today's standards, the housing provided for the migrants was deplorable. They lived in former sheds and other farm outbuildings. They had electricity, but no indoor plumbing or running water. In the 1950s, the majority of the farmers in central Wisconsin had gotten electricity only recently. Many of the farmers did not yet have indoor plumbing or running water in their own farmhouses.
Migrant workers had been coming to Wisconsin starting in the early 1900s, when they worked in the sugar beet fields. By the 1950s, most of them were helping harvest seasonal crops such as cherries (Door County) and cucumbers (central Wisconsin). The number of migrants working in the state peaked at about 15,000 in 1955.
By the 1960s, most of the small cucumber acreages had disappeared. Cucumber processors such as H. J. Heinz; Libby, McNeil and Libby; Redgranite Pickle Company; and the Chicago Pickle Company began contracting with farmers growing larger acreages. By this time, some of the larger growers had begun installing irrigation equipment that increased the per-acre production and led to more uniform, well-developed cucumbers. Nearly all the small cucumber salting stations in Wisconsin closed. The big companies trucked fresh cucumbers directly to their large processing plants in Green Bay and out of state.
Picking cucumbers is one of the few farm operations that has essentially eluded technology. No one has invented a mechanical picker that can harvest the crop without destroying the vines. For maximum production, a cucumber plant must be picked many times during the weeks it is producing—as many as fifteen or more times—and by hand. Today in central Wisconsin, migrant workers still do nearly all the cucumber handwork.
From the 1950s through the 1970s, Wisconsin passed a series of laws that helped protect migrant workers from exploitation. A 1977 law began regulating migrant housing, job contracts, minimum wages, and transportation. It also created the Governor's Migrant Labor Council, which made sure that that the provisions of the 1977 law were followed.