Josh Wittmore, ad manager Bixby Billings, photographer Steve Atkins, and Bert Schmid sat around an old oak table in Farm Country News’s conference room on the Wednesday afternoon following the Tamarack River Winter Festival. The conference room also served as the lunchroom, archives collection room, photocopy room, and a place where extra stuff was stored—such as newspapers from around the country, farm magazines, and the like.
Bert had written rows of numbers on the blackboard that hung on one end of the room. Above each row, he wrote a year, starting with 1965, and a year for every ten years since. The numbers represented profits, and from 1965 to 1995 they showed a steady increase—1995 was a peak. Since then, the numbers had been dropping. The newspaper was losing money, more each quarter.
When everyone was seated, Bert stood up and walked to the board. “You all know that we’ve got financial troubles, but I wanted to take a few minutes to show you how bad it really is. There’s a clear danger we might go bankrupt.”
The room was quiet. “The numbers speak for themselves—so, do you have any questions?”
“Have we had any increase in subscriptions since we started running some of the community contributions?” asked Josh.
“A little. A few more subscribers. We need all the subscribers we can find, but our big problem is advertisers. We need more advertising money. That’s how we’ve survived in the past; that’s the only way we can survive in the future. Bixby, what’s your take on increasing advertising revenue?”
Bixby Billings, a round-faced, bald, moderately overweight man, was prone to wearing loud neckties and bright shirts. He generally had a positive, I-can-get-it-done attitude. But not today. “I’m trying everything,” he said. “I tried various kinds of special offers. I make the rounds of the farm shows, talking to the big machinery and feed guys. I’m working ten-hour days, and when all is said and done—I just don’t know what to do. The Internet is killing us. No question about it. The big companies, the farm machinery companies, the feed companies, the chemical companies—they have as much advertising money as before or more than ever—but they’re advertising through their own websites and on dozens of other farm-related websites. I don’t know how to compete with that.”
“Josh, what’s your take on all this?”
“I think Bixby’s got it right. The Internet is the future for lots of people, farm people included.”
“Damn Internet,” Bert said, pounding his big hand on the table. It’s gonna destroy all of us. How in hell do you fight something you can’t see? Tell me that?”
The room was silent, as everyone knew Bert’s attitude toward computers and the Internet. Bert insisted on writing his stories with a manual typewriter—the paper’s secretary retyped his work onto the paper’s server so it could be sent to their printer, which refused to accept anything that wasn’t digital.
“One last hope we’ve got,” said Bert, rubbing his hand through his thick, unruly gray hair. “That’s the Nathan West story. That’ll probably be the biggest story we’ve ever done, after the feedlot stories, that is; we sure got people talking about how beef cattle are fed for market. Folks are split every which way about the coming of this big factory farm to the Tamarack River Valley. Soon as you do your visit to the farm in Iowa, we’ll step up our coverage. Get people reading about Nathan West—and arguing. Can’t beat an issue like this for stirring up interest.”
“I hope you’re right,” Josh said quietly. “I hope you’re right.”
Josh returned to his office. He was worried about his future with Farm Country News, but at the same time more than pleased with how his relationship with Natalie was developing. At his desk, he opened a plain envelope postmarked Waupaca. It contained two more submissions signed “M.D.” Josh had given up trying to identify the writer. What he did know was that people were talking about M.D.’s writing, and that’s what was important. It didn’t matter if they were for or against the writer’s positions; what mattered is that they talked about it—and bought more newspapers.
He read this week’s submission—a short essay and a poem.
To those who know, and those who don’t, the mighty Tamarack River is a mystery and a history. From the seeping springs that give birth to it in the far north in the land of the Ojibwe, the Tamarack twists and turns its way south through the pinelands and the lowlands, through the cranberry marshes and the tamarack forests.
Twisting and turning, it’s moving, always moving, and ever growing larger as it welcomes the many little streams that feed it and give it strength and vitality as it hurries along through wide quiet stretches, over rapids and around tight turns on its way to the lake called Poygan and then to the mighty Winnebago, the largest lake in Wisconsin.
For ten thousand years this river has run, since the last great glacier gave up its icy grip on the land and retreated to the north, leaving behind a scattering of lakes and rivers, like the Tamarack and the Wisconsin, the Fox and the Chippewa, the Wolf and the Peshtigo.
The Tamarack River is always the same but constantly changing. The water we see today is not the water we see tomorrow. It is predictable and unpredictable. It is a source of solace and a place to fear, a friend one day, a foe the next. But it is always the river, the mighty Tamarack River. Those who know the Tamarack respect it and love it. For there is nothing like it. Nothing like the Tamarack River.
M.D.
Factories and rivers don’t mix.
History is filled with examples.
Polluted water and dead fish.
A factory farm and a river never mix.
They never will;
It’s impossible to think they should.
So save our river!
The mighty Tamarack River.
Stop the factory hog farm.
Send it packing.
Keep our river clear and running pure.
Save the fish and other river creatures.
Keep the factories off the farm.
M.D.
Josh read both submissions a second time and decided to run them both in the next issue of the paper. He was sure the second one would generate some interest. Reading the material took his mind off the paper’s problems and his own, should the paper go under. He thought about how much money he had in the bank—not much—and how long he could live without a job. For the first time since he’d begun working at Farm Country News, he pulled up his résumé on his computer and scanned it. It would take him a while to bring it up to date. He’d prepared his last résumé when he graduated from college. Lots had happened in his life since then, lots of water under the bridge, even though until now he had kept the same job.
He thought again about Natalie and her cabin, how warm it had been while a fierce blizzard raged outside and they drank wine and ate chocolate cake in front of a blazing fire. He thought of the smell of her hair and her subtle perfume, and the touch of her gentle hands on his neck—and more.