Tamarack River Ghost (5 page)

As he slowly drove down Main Street he saw the offices of Jensen, Jensen and O’Malley, a law firm that had been in Willow River since the
1920s. He drove past the two taverns on Main Street, there since he came to Willow River as a kid with his folks: Joe’s Bar and Johnny J’s Saloon. He remembered walking by them and smelling stale beer and secondhand tobacco smoke. Several of the once thriving businesses on Main Street had closed their doors since he left after college—a pharmacy, an office supply store, a big grocery store, a bakery—all gone, the buildings vacant with For Sale signs in their windows.

At the stoplight, he turned north toward Link Lake and spotted the Willow River Hospital and Clinic. The clinic was new. So was a dental office next to it.

Back on Main Street, he traveled east, past the new McDonald’s and Culver’s restaurants, and past the big Buy It Here grocery store with a statue of a life-size Angus steer standing out front. He saw the
Ames County Argus
’s new building. The weekly
Argus
was a newspaper nearly as old as
Farm Country News
. Its handful of reporters, several of them stringers, covered all corners of Ames County; its circulation was primarily house-holds in Ames County and thus was not a competitor of
Farm Country News
, which covered much of the Midwest and concentrated on agricultural stories.

Josh looked for the Lone Pine Restaurant that he remembered standing on the far east side of Willow River. He found it, but now it was a part of the Willow River Plaza—a strip mall with an Ace Hardware store, an Amish furniture place, and a small-engine repair shop, all scrunched together with no attempt at architectural aesthetics.

He swung south, off Main Street and past what had been cucumber receiving and salting stations, now warehouses or mostly old abandoned and graying buildings. He drove past the new Farmers Co-op Feed Store, and then past the Ames County Fairgrounds, where he saw a couple of new metal buildings, but it mostly looked the same as it had when he was a kid in 4-H, showing calves there.

Josh pulled open the courthouse door and walked down the long hall to the agricultural agent’s office, past the register of deeds office and the county clerk’s office.

Brittani Martin, office manager, smiled when Josh entered the ag agent’s office.

“What can I do for you?” she asked pleasantly.

“I have an appointment with Ben Wesley,” Josh said, smiling.

“Your name, please.”

“Josh Wittmore, with
Farm Country News
.”

“He’s expecting you, Mr. Wittmore. Go right in.”

“Josh, it’s been awhile,” said Ben as he walked around from behind his desk and shook Josh’s hand. “I remember when you were in 4-H and helped out at the Ames County Fair.”

“Those were good days,” said Josh. “Fun days.”

“How’re your folks doing? Heard they sold their cows a couple years ago.”

“Yeah, dad’s knees were giving out. Besides, it’s time for both of them to take it a little easy.”

“Yup, there comes a time. What brings you to town?”

“You probably haven’t heard that I’m working out of the main office for
Farm Country News
now, right here in Willow River. Moved back here last week. Found myself an apartment here in town.”

“Well, good for you, Josh. Welcome back. Always good to have one of our best and brightest return.”

“I don’t know about the best and brightest part, but it feels good to be back home. I’ve been living in Springfield, Illinois—worked out of the Illinois bureau until last week.”

“You’re with a good paper; it’s done a lot for midwestern farming, no question about it. I’ve been reading the series on cattle feedlots. Let’s see, I got the last issue right here. You know this guy, Jed Walker?”

“I do,” Josh said.

“He’s a good writer. Your paper get in any trouble for telling the Lazy Z story?”

“Made some people pretty mad,” Josh said. He didn’t want to get into the details of just how mad a few of them had gotten.

“Well, what can I do for you?” Ben asked as he folded the paper and put it back on his desk.

“I’m looking for an update on what’s going on in Ames County. I know a lot has changed since I left. And, of course, I’m looking for a good story.”

“You might want to spend a little time in the Tamarack River Valley, lots going on there these days—and in some ways nothing going on.”

“You lost me there, Ben.”

“Some of the old timers out there aren’t about to change; they’re farming just like their grandfathers farmed. Then we’ve got a half dozen or so younger farmers and their families trying to make a go of it with vegetables and fruits—doing pretty well too, especially with the public’s increasing interest in buying locally. Our Wednesday farmers market here on the courthouse square started a few years ago has also helped their sales considerably.”

“Had several of these kinds of farmers around Springfield too. Interesting group,” Josh said.

“That they are. Something else, too. A couple years ago, a developer out of Chicago came in here waving dollar bills and tried to impress the locals with his fancy talk and big ideas. Wilson Johnson was his name. He bought out three retired farmers, got himself 480 acres, some of it right along the Tamarack River. He built a golf course and a bunch of log condos.”

“How’s it working out?

“Been a struggle for Johnson,” said Ben. “Guess there aren’t as many condo buyers out there as he thought.”

“Sounds like some good stories out there in the valley.”

“Yup there are. Even a whopper of a ghost story.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about the Tamarack River Ghost?”

“That’s the one.”

“My dad told me the story when I was a kid. Scared the bejeebers out of me at the time.”

“Yup, it’s quite a story. Lots of people believe it, too.”

“What about these guys farming like their grandfathers? You have a name of someone I could interview?”

Ben sat back in his chair for a minute and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“I’d suggest Dan Burman. He doesn’t have anything to do with my office, but I’ve heard he’s an interesting fellow. He’s one of those ‘keep the government away from me’ guys. He’s got a point of view worth hearing—even though I probably wouldn’t agree with him very much.”

“I’ll go see him,” Josh said, getting up from his chair. “You got an extra hour to talk later today, when I finish out at Burman’s, assuming he’s home?”

“Sure, I’ll be here. I plan on being in the office all afternoon.”

Ben gave Josh detailed directions to the Burman farm, located along a little traveled gravel road not far from the Tamarack River and about fifteen miles from Willow River. This was a part of Ames County that Josh did not know well. He’d fished the Tamarack with his dad when he was a kid, but he didn’t know any of the people living there. Josh’s dad had a low opinion of the farmers in this part of the county. “Swamp angels,” he called them. “They take a bath and get a haircut in the spring, and that’s about it. Mostly live off the land. Hunt, fish, pick berries and wild apples.” Of course, Josh’s father was remembering farmers who lived in the valley two generations ago. Josh imagined those living there today did considerably better than their ancestors.

Josh slowed his pickup, looking for the fire number that would tell him he’d found the right place. The driveway was almost overgrown with brush—box elder and the dreaded buckthorn that seemed to grow everywhere these days. He turned in and drove about fifty yards to the farmstead, a gray, forlorn-looking farmhouse with tall grass growing around it, a couple of sheds, a corncrib, and a barn that had once been painted red and was now a dreary gray.

A big mixed-breed dog bounded out from in back of the house to meet him, barking and not wagging its tail. Not a friendly looking animal. Josh grabbed up his clipboard and cautiously opened the pickup door. The big dog, a dirty, short-haired brown animal that Josh figured was a cross between a rottweiler and a hound of some kind, stood a few yards off, still barking loudly.

“Good dog,” Josh said. “Good dog.” Josh had met many dogs over the years, some of them friendly, some of them ready to chew his leg, and the
rest somewhere in between—unknowns and unpredictable. He put this one in the third category. One of the reasons he always carried a clipboard was that if a dog decided to bite him, he would slam the edge of the clipboard against its nose. That generally worked, although it did not put him in the good graces of those he visited.

A thin woman wearing an apron and holding a broom appeared on the porch of the farmhouse. No doubt she’d heard the dog barking.

“Shut up, Ralphy. Shut up that damn barking,” she scolded.

“What was it you wanted?” the woman said to Josh. “Ralphy, you shut up that barking or I’ll bust your ribs with this broom.” She swung the broom at the dog, but she obviously had not intended to hit it. The dog slunk away, its tail between its legs.

“I’m from the
Farm Country News
,” Josh said. “I’d like to talk with you folks.”

“What newspaper?” the woman asked.

“
Farm Country News
.”

“Never heard of it. Only paper we know about is the
Ames County Argus
. What’d you want to talk about?”

“Want to talk about farming.”

“Talk about farming.” She paused for a minute. “You wanna talk about farming, you gotta talk to the mister.”

“Where would I find him?”

“I expect he’s out in the barn. That’s where he usually is this time of day.”

“Thank you,” Josh said as he turned toward the barn. The woman disappeared into the house. The dog remained out of sight.

“Hello?” Josh called when he pulled open the barn door. “Mr. Burman?”

“Yeah, who wants to know?”

“My name is Josh Wittmore, and I’m with the
Farm Country News
.”

In the dim interior of the barn, Josh saw a short, thin man wearing bib overalls and working at something spread out on some boards over a couple of sawhorses. The man had about a five-day growth of whiskers and hair that stuck out from under a dirty John Deere cap in every direction.

“Whatever you’re sellin’, I don’t want none of it.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Josh said. “I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Talk about what?”

“I’m doing a story on farmers like yourself, how you’re doin’, how things are goin’.”

“Nobody cares how I’m doin’. I don’t think nobody gives a damn about me and my family.”

“Well, I’m one of those who does. I’m writing a story about people like yourself, farmers who are trying to make a go of it.”

Josh, with his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of the barn, noticed that Burman held a big butcher knife and was carving up two skinned animals. He cut off a chunk of meat and tossed it into a big tub.

“What kind of meat is that?” Josh asked, curious.

“These here are goats. We raise a few goats, eat a couple of them every year. Not the best meat in the world, but we don’t go hungry.”

“So what can you tell me about farming here in the Tamarack River Valley?”

“You really want to know?” He waved the big butcher knife in the air.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, in a couple of words, it’s a bitch.”

“How so?”

“First problem is the damn government. They don’t care about us little guys. They give those subsidies to the big-time farmers, and we sit out here and they don’t give us a dime. Not a stinkin’ dime.

“And our taxes. Do they ever go down? No, they do not. Damn government keeps raisin’ the taxes, especially taxes on my land. I only got 120 acres, and they tax the hell out of me.”

“Taxes are a problem for farmers,” Josh offered.

“You damn bet they are, and you can write that in your story too,” Burman said. “Then there’s the DNR. That damnable Department of Natural Resources. I tell you, we’d be better off if every damn one of them DNR people got fired. They can be such a pain in the ass. Take them damn game wardens. We got the most snoopy game warden in the world
right here in Ames County. Name is Natalie Karlsen. No business a woman being a game warden. But we got her. She’s a piece of work. Everyday she’s out snoopin’ for people she thinks is breaking the law. I tell you—we could sure get along without her.”

“How about crops, what kind of crops do you grow?” Josh asked, trying to move the discussion away from the conservation warden.

“Well let’s see, I grow maybe ten acres of corn—enough for the hogs and the few steers we raise. Raise a few goats. Got a few acres of pasture. We got a big garden. Keeps the kids busy in the summer. Old lady cans a lot of the garden stuff. We grow an acre of potatoes. Sometimes have a few extra potatoes and squash to sell at the farmers market in Willow River.” Burman paused for a minute. “Got about fifty acres of woods that runs up to the river. Grow me some deer and rabbits, some squirrels, and a few partridges there.” He laughed as he told about his woods.

“Can’t do much about the wild game. Damn game warden says I gotta have a license to shoot anything. Imagine that, having a hunting license to kill something you grow on your own land. Country’s gone to hell. Gone completely to hell.” He rubbed his hand with the knife in it across his whiskered chin.

“So you’re making a living out here,” Josh said.

“Survivin’, that’s about all we’re doin’. Survivin’ from one year to the next. Got five kids, you know. All in school right now. Ride the bus, they do. Doin’ well in school, too. Proud of every one of ’em.”

“Kids help out around here, do they?” Josh asked.

“You bet they do. Help out a lot. Have their chores to do every day before they go to school and when they get back home again. Chores is good for kids. Teaches ’em how to work. People don’t know how to work anymore. They sit behind some desk with one of them computers on it and call it work. That ain’t work. Gotta get your hands dirty before you can call workin’ work.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” offered Josh. He was busy scribbling notes in the pad on his clipboard. “Anything else you’d like to share?”

“Nope. Probably said more than I should already. What paper did you say you were from?”