Josh needed a break. He’d been hunched over his computer keyboard most of the morning. On his way for his third cup of coffee, he walked by his boss’s open door.
“Josh, you got a minute?” Bert asked.
“Sure, how are things with you?”
“I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news. Have a seat.”
“So what’s happening?” asked Josh.
Bert took off his wire-rimmed glasses and put them on the pile of budget sheets in front of him.
“I had to close the Indiana and Ohio bureaus this week. Laid off twelve people. I hated to do it, but had no choice. Only three bureaus left: Iowa, Minnesota, and Wisconsin. And things don’t look good in Minnesota.”
“Advertising revenue still down?”
“Way down. We just lost another big account. National Beef Feedlot folks—pulled their ads and said they’d never run another ad in our ‘decrepit paper,’ to use their exact words.”
“They didn’t like my stories?”
“That’s about it. Damn fools couldn’t see that the stories you wrote would help them in the long run. Help them police some of their bad actors so the public would get off their case about animal treatment and air and water pollution.”
“That’s how it goes some days. I wrote what I saw, and it wasn’t pretty.”
“That’s what a newspaper is supposed to do. Dig out the facts and let them fall where they may. No holds barred. That’s what a good newspaper does, and that’s what this paper has done for nearly 150 years.” Bert pounded his fist on his desk to make his point.
“Of course, it’s the damn Internet that’s killing us. Just killing us. People are not reading print newspapers any more, especially the young people. And advertisers, well when subscriptions go down, advertisers began disappearing too. I just don’t know where it’s headed, Josh.”
Josh was one of the first to arrive at the Tamarack Town Hall on this cold January evening. A foot of snow had fallen the previous day, and although the snowplows had been through to clear the roads, a stiff northwest wind continued to blow, making for questionable visibility and difficult driving. He wondered if many people would turn out for the meeting, which had been announced in the Ames County Argus and over the local radio station as “an opportunity to learn about Nathan West Industries’ new hog operation planned for the Tamarack River Valley.” When Josh opened the door, he spotted the county agricultural agent, Ben Wesley, setting up folding chairs.
“How you doing, Josh?” asked Ben.
“Doing okay, kind of miserable night to be out.”
“That it is. You forget how winter can be up here in central Wisconsin?”
“Nope, I didn’t,” said Josh. He stamped his boots to remove the snow from them, took off his coat, and began helping Ben with the chairs.
By 7:30, a steady stream of people had trudged through the snow, howdied each other, and crowded into the little building. The Tamarack Valley School had closed in 1955, and at that time the township purchased the building for its meeting and voting place. Most of the time, the building, which could hold up to seventy-five people, was sufficiently large for town board and community meetings, but by 8:00 p.m. it was bursting at the seams. Every chair was taken, people stood in the back, and still others were trying to push through the door.
“Looks like we got ourselves a hot topic,” Curt Nale, town chairman and vegetable grower, said to Ben.
“Appears so,” said Ben. “These big factory farms stir up people, both pro and con.”
Ben motioned toward Josh. “Curt, I want you to meet Josh Wittmore; he works for the Farm Country News these days, but he grew up on a farm over near Link Lake.”
“Heard you’d moved back to Ames County.” Curt shook Josh’s hand.
“Glad to be back. One of my assignments is writing a series on the Tamarack River Valley. Didn’t expect a hot issue would be a part of the story,” said Josh.
“Valley’s been pretty quiet. Folks got a little upset a few years ago when the golf course came in with its fancy log condominiums; just like they were upset when it came, they were upset when it went bankrupt. Some of the people around here get pretty agitated about land taxes, their own mostly. When the golf course left, the tax base went down a little,” said Curt.
A red-faced man, overweight and out of breath, walked up to Ben and shook his hand. “How you doing, Billy,” said Ben. “Meet Josh Wittmore with Farm Country News, he just moved back here from the Illinois bureau.”
Josh shook hands. “Josh, this is Billy Baxter, editor of the Ames County Argus.”
“Great to meet you,” said Josh. “You don’t know me, but I know you. My folks still live near Link Lake, where I grew up. And we forever subscribed to the Argus.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Baxter. “Glad to hear it. Keeping subscribers these days can be a challenge.”
“Tell me about it,” said Josh. “It’s a challenge for Farm Country News as well.”
The two newspapermen continued chatting as a man clutching an armful of equipment came through the door and hurried to the front of the room. Ed Clark, the regional representative for Nathan West Industries, was in his mid-forties and balding. He wore khaki pants, a blue blazer, and a sport shirt open at the collar. When Clark spotted Curt Nale, he put down his equipment and shook the town chairman’s hand. He also said hello to Ben and shook his hand as well. It was obvious that Clark had made sure that he knew the community leaders well ahead of scheduling this meeting.
“Ed, meet Josh Wittmore from the Farm Country News,” said Curt.
“Josh, this is Ed Clark, with Nathan West Industries.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Clark. Josh noticed his firm handshake and his way of looking you straight in the eye when he shook your hand. Josh was impressed with the man’s confidence; he had surely faced many crowds of doubters and naysayers about large-scale farming over the years. Big hog farms, multi-thousand-cow dairy operations, huge poultry-raising enterprises, and cattle feedlots had split the rural communities where they located. People were either for or against them, with feelings strong on each side. The situation reminded Josh of what he’d heard from his folks about the closing of so many one-room country schools just like this one. In the 1950s, the issue had torn up rural communities to the point where some neighbors still didn’t speak to each other because of how they came down on the issue. He hoped this planned hog facility wouldn’t do the same thing.
Clark, who worked out of NWI’s Dubuque headquarters, had been in the community for a couple of days, driving around, talking to people in both Willow River and Tamarack Corners and walking over the land his company had purchased. With the former Tamarack River Golf Course covered with snow, it was a bit difficult for him to envisage just where they would place their buildings, and he had no idea yet what the company would do with the vacant log-faced condo buildings. When the company purchased the property, it had considered the condos as possible housing for employees—that still seemed a reasonable idea, except there were far more condo units than potential employees.
A few minutes after eight, Curt Nale called the meeting to order.
“I’m pleased to see so many of you on this cold, blustery, wintry night. We’ll get to the business at hand in just a few minutes. But before we get to talking about pigs, Ben Wesley, our county agricultural agent, has a word.”
Ben walked to the front of the room to applause; nearly everyone in the room had worked with him at one time or another, and he was well liked.
“Thank you,” he said. “Ames County is changing, as most of you know. And agriculture is changing, sometimes faster than some of us want it to. Tonight we’re going to learn about a new farming operation that is planned for Ames County. I know many of you have questions—that’s a good thing—we all should be well informed when we face change. I want you all to know that I am always open to your questions about agriculture and land use, as I have always been. Give me a call or stop by the office. Now I’ll turn the meeting back to Tamarack town chairman Curt Nale. Curt.”
“Thank you, Ben. As you all know, Nathan West Industries of Dubuque has purchased the old Tamarack River Golf Course and plans to establish a hog farm there. It is seeking a zoning change from the county to return the golf course to agricultural land, and it has submitted its plans to the Department of Natural Resources to obtain the necessary permits. But I’ll let Ed Clark from Nathan West tell you all about what the company has in mind. Oh, before I turn the podium over to Mr. Clark, let me say that this is not a decision-making meeting—that is, we’ll not do any voting about anything. We are here to learn what Nathan West is planning. A lot of rumors have been floating around, so let’s find out what these folks really have in mind. Mr. Clark.”
The audience applauded politely, waiting to learn more about its potential new neighbor in the valley and what this internationally known company planned to do with land that had once been three family farms. A tall, thin young woman standing in the back of the room raised her hand and then began waving it back and forth so Clark might allow her to speak. He ignored her.
“Thank you for the opportunity to share some of Nathan West’s plans for something I’m sure you’ll all find exciting,” Clark began. “We plan to become your new neighbor in the valley, and we want to get off on the right foot. First, let me tell you something about Nathan West Industries.”
Clark snapped on his computer projector and ran through a series of slides showing grain elevators, barges on the Mississippi River carrying grain, the company’s big meat-processing plant in Dubuque, and, finally, some shots of a couple of Nathan West hog farms in Iowa.
“Let me tell you a bit more about our hog operations, because the one we are planning for the Tamarack Valley will be similar, but even more modern and technologically up to date than any of these.”
The audience watched and listened intently; as the session went on, some foot-shuffling could be heard, and some whispering. It was becoming obvious that people had heard enough lecturing and wanted to ask questions. A hand flew up from in back of the room.
“Say, we gonna have a chance to ask you some questions?” Oscar Anderson asked, his friend Fred Russo seated next to him. Oscar was generally rather quiet, but he obviously had something on his mind and wanted to get his idea out there while people were still fresh and not too enthralled by what they were hearing from the well-spoken Nathan West representative.
“You bet you will,” said Ed Clark, who shut off the projector. “Let’s get to your questions right now.” A buzz could be heard as people turned to each other and then to Oscar, who stood up from his chair. Wearing a bright plaid flannel shirt, he leaned on his ever-present cane and began speaking. His voice was deep, his speaking style slow and deliberate.
“I was born in this valley eighty-six years ago,” he began. He wiped a wrinkled hand across his mouth. “I’ve got a few things to say about this big pig production outfit you got planned for our neighborhood.”
“Go right ahead,” said Clark. Josh had his notepad at the ready. He had done his own research about the history and current operations of Nathan West; now he was curious what people in the valley thought of the idea.
“First question I got for you, Mr. Clark, is this. Are you aware that pig manure stinks?” Oscar asked with a straight face. A tittering of laughter flowed across the audience; most of its members were either now or had once been farming, and they knew full well the intensity of smells coming from a hog yard.
“Yes, I am,” answered Clark, without a hint of a smile. “Anyone who knows anything about farming knows there are some smells associated with it.”
“Do you know how much smell can come from a pig pen with twenty pigs?”
“Yes, I believe I do,” answered Clark.
“Can you imagine what the smell from several thousand hogs might be, the number you are suggesting that will be raised on your farm?”
“We do everything we can to keep the smells in control and want you all to know that we meet every law and regulation that’s required of us; we always have, and we always will.” Clark’s response sounded like he had it memorized and had repeated these words many times and in many communities. Josh wrote it down on his notepad word for word. Oscar frowned when he heard the response but said nothing further.
A tall, thin, older woman with short gray hair stood up. “My name is Phoebe Henderson,” she said, a bit haltingly. “I’ve spent my life working in Chicago and recently retired here in the Tamarack River Valley. I grew up here in the valley and for many years looked forward to retiring to this beautiful place that I remember so well. My home and my five acres are but a half mile from here, overlooking the river. My question to you, Mr. Clark, is how bad are these hog smells going to be?”
“Thank you for your question, Ms. Henderson. Nathan West Industries prides itself in being a good neighbor. I believe you will find us a good neighbor when we become established here in what you so correctly describe as a beautiful place.” Again Josh noted the question and the response—and wrote, “Didn’t touch the smell problem.”
“Might I have a word?” asked a thin fellow near the front of the room.
“You certainly may,” said Clark.
“Well, my name is Dan Burman. I own a little farm just down the road a piece from here. As a kid, I spent lots of time in this building when it was a country school. My old man grew up in this valley. My kids are growing up in this valley. I’m tryin’ to make a livin’ on the farm where I was born and raised. I’m glad you’re comin’ to the valley. Property taxes are so damn high, none of us can hardly pay ’em.” He paused for a moment and rubbed a hand across his three-day stubble. “This worthless golf course has been sittin’ here moldering,” Burman continued. “Need a tax-paying company like yours to come in here. So hogs stink a little? There’s lots in life that stinks, including high taxes and the damn government sticking its nose in our lives.”
There was brief applause following Burman’s words.
“Thank you for those comments,” said Clark.
“Other questions?” asked Clark, as he continued to ignore a young woman who continued standing with her hand up, red faced and frustrated.
A young man standing off to the side back raised his hand. “Yes,” Clark said, recognizing the speaker.
“My name is Clyde Mueller, and I’m a vegetable farmer here in the valley. I’m concerned about the Tamarack River. We recently had some pollution problems with the river, and now that it’s cleaned up we don’t want any more. The river gives our community its name; it’s a place where we fish and swim. Its history is our history. Can you assure us that an operation of your size won’t pollute our river?”
“I can guarantee it,” said Clark. “We follow to the letter every DNR regulation. We have the most up-to-date approach for storing and spreading our manure. I can assure you that this beautiful river, and it is beautiful, will remain so.”
Several people turned to each and either smiled or frowned, depending on their take on large-scale farming and confined-animal operations such as the one Nathan West was planning.
Clark finally recognized the young woman who had been waving her arm from the back of the room. He had ignored her for several minutes because he knew what was coming. She wore a loose-fitting T-shirt with the logo of a prominent animal-rights group printed in bright orange across the front.
“Yes,” Clark said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. She obviously had something to say to the entire crowd, not just to Ed Clark. She had a strong voice.
“I am appalled that you are even considering allowing this company to establish itself in your community. No animal should have to endure what pigs endure in these big factory farms. How we treat our animals is a disgrace to the human race, to say nothing about the fact that we kill and eat them. Pigs have feelings too, just like we do, yet look what we do to them. We must all join in an effort to block this company and all companies like it that promote the raising, killing, and eating of animals.” Her loud voice could be heard in every corner of the building. When she finished her speech, she sat down. The room was quiet for a moment or two. And then, from somewhere near the front, a loud “boo,” and then another even louder “boo.”
Clark held up his hand and waved it downward, to signal to the persons booing that they’d made their point. A number of other questions followed:
“How much will the traffic in the area be affected by trucks coming and going?”
“Should not be a problem.”
“How many people will Nathan West employ?”
“At first about fifteen or so.”
“When do you plan to start building?”
“As soon as we have all our permits and the county zoning committee rezones our property as agricultural.”
“Will Nathan West purchase its hog feed locally?”
“We will purchase as much as we can, but several thousand pigs eat a lot.” A few old farmers chuckled, as they knew about the eating habits of hogs.
“What about water?”
“We’ll pump our water from deep wells.”
“What will you do with the cemetery that is on your property?”
“Nothing. We have great respect for cemeteries.”
“Do you know about the Tamarack River Ghost?” Now a considerable chuckle could be heard in the audience.
“Yes, we know about the Tamarack River Ghost.”
“What will you do about it?”
“What would you suggest?” asked Clark.
No response.
When it looked like the meeting was about to close, an older gentleman who had been sitting in the back stood up. He was slightly stooped and had white hair and a white beard.
“My name is Amos Slogum. Most people around here call me Shotgun,” he said with a clear voice. “I was born in this valley and have lived my entire life here. The Tamarack River and I have been friends for a long time.”
Most people in the audience knew Shotgun, knew he was a vegetable grower and had a small cranberry bog. Most also remembered that Shogun had a mind of his own and he was not the least bit shy about letting others know what he was thinking.
“I’ve been sitting here listening to all this palaver about pigs, pollution, and the smell of hog manure for the last hour or so. I hate to say it, but the entire discussion is old fashioned and out of date. Let me digress a moment to make my point. You all know how much we depend on oil to run our cars, keep our tractors moving, keep our economy buzzing along. We also know that we’re running out of the stuff. What do we do—we just keep looking for more, in places where it’s hard to look, like a mile beneath the sea.”
Some people were beginning to fidget; they were tired after an already long, drawn-out meeting. They knew Shotgun had a point somewhere in his words, and they wished he’d get around to making it so they could go home.
“We need a new major energy source to replace oil and begin using a lot less of it,” Shotgun said. He paused briefly and then said, “We also need to quit eating so much meat.”
“So, what’s your point?” someone sitting toward the front asked. It was not a belligerent question, merely an inquiry.
“My point is, we here in the Tamarack River Valley should stand up and say we don’t need another hog farm, not here, not anywhere. And the sooner all these pork farms begin closing down, the better it will be for all of us—for our health, and for the health of the environment. For the sake of the planet, we must quit eating meat.”
The room was silent. No one questioned or challenged Shotgun— some thought he was just probably getting a little senile, others believed it was another of his wild ideas that generally made no sense. But Josh heard him well and was both recording his comments and taking notes as rapidly as he could. He knew he had a story that was different from what he’d been hearing of late—big-time hog farming versus small-time hog farming. This Slogum guy was suggesting no hog farming at all, and no meat eating.
Ed Clark stood, ready with a response for Shotgun. But Curt Nale motioned for him to stay seated.
“The hour is late. I suggest we close this meeting and give a round of applause to Ed Clark, who has, I think, been straightforward in answering your questions.”
The applause was considerably greater than it had been at the beginning of the meeting. Glancing at the old schoolhouse regulator clock that hung on the town hall wall, Josh saw that it was 11:30. He moved through the crowd so that he could talk more with Shotgun Slogum, to see what else he had to say about his no-more-meat perspective.