Tamarack River Ghost
Page 18
A brief round of applause followed Marcella’s comments.
The discussion began with questions and comments from every perspective. For Josh, it seemed a repeat of January’s meeting, but this crowd was larger and the questions seemed better informed. It was clear that people had been doing their homework; some even quoted from Farm Country News about advantages or disadvantages of factory farming.
For nearly an hour, people stood, most voicing their opposition to Nathan West coming to their community. Some, impressed with the corporation’s promise to contribute money to Tamarack Corners, seemed on the fence.
Shotgun Slogum raised his hand and slowly rose to his feet. “Most of you folks know me, and you also know that I am 100 percent opposed to this factory pig farm coming to our community. Those of you impressed with Nathan West’s promises to the community should not be taken in. Do you know for sure NWI will keep its promises?” He turned to Marcella Happsit, who had a perplexed look on her face. “Of course you don’t. Don’t you see that this is merely a ploy to gain your approval, your good will? We need to send Nathan West packing. We don’t need it stinking up our valley.”
Another round of applause came from those who were adamantly opposed to Nathan West and its plans.
At 9:00, Cindy Jennings said, “I want to introduce Dr. Randy Oakfield, who is with the Department of Agribusiness Studies at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Dr. Oakfield has been researching large hog operations for several months. His research has included surveying citizens here in Ames County. Dr. Oakfield.”
Randy, with little experience talking to citizen groups, stood and walked to the microphone. He wore tan trousers and a dark brown corduroy jacket. His white button-down shirt was open at the top.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said quietly, looking down at the notes he had put on the podium.
“Louder,” someone in the back of the room said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said again with a bit more force. “My research assistant, Emily Jordan, and I have been studying citizens’ reactions to large factory farms. We have not completed our final report—indeed there will likely be several of them—but we do have some preliminary results that I think you will find useful. I’ve asked Emily to share with you some of these early findings.” He nodded toward her, and she stood and walked to the computer projector she had earlier set up and snapped it on. On the screen appeared the words “Preliminary Findings: Citizens’ Reactions to Large-Scale Hog Farms.”
“Hello, everyone,” she said when she got to the podium. She had tied her red hair in a ponytail. And she wore a dark tan skirt with a matching blazer and a light tan blouse.
“How’s everyone doing? Interesting meeting. Very interesting,” she said. Where her professor seemed shy and tentative, she was bubbly and forthcoming.
“We’ve still got lots of work to do with these data, but we have some preliminary findings I think you’ll find interesting.” She looked around the room; everyone was looking in her direction, not only because it was a pleasant break from the previous often contentious discussion, but because she was easy to listen to.
“Let me tell you a little bit about how we put this research project together,” she began. She very consciously avoided mentioning that the National Affiliated Hog Producers, of which National West Industries was a member, had financed the project. She didn’t want to get into an argument about the pros and cons of an industry financing research that ultimately related to what that industry did.
She pushed a button on the projector’s remote control, and a new slide appeared on the screen:
Survey Forms:
One for Whistler County, Iowa
One for Ames County, Wisconsin
One for the Tamarack River Valley
We developed the first set of questions for Whistler County, Iowa, which has several large, confined hog operations. We developed a second set for Ames County, Wisconsin, with a special subset for those living in the Tamarack River Valley. We didn’t send the questionnaires to everyone, but rather to a randomly selected sample of the landowners. So you may not have gotten one of our forms. We asked several questions, but I believe the one of most interest to you is this one.” She clicked the remote once more:
Whistler County, Iowa, Sample:
Do you approve of large, confined hog operations in your county?
“For Ames County and the subsample of folks living in the Tamarack River Valley, we asked—” She pushed the remote again:
Ames County, Wisconsin, and the Tamarack River Valley Sample:
Do you approve of a large, confined hog operation coming to Ames County?
“I’ll bet you’d now like to see what we’ve learned? Right? So here goes.” She once more clicked the remote.
Approval Percentages for Large, Confined Hog Operations in Whistler County, Iowa:
Yes—65 percent
No—30 percent
No opinion—5 percent
“Now let’s move to Ames County.”
Approval Percentages for Large, Confined Hog Operations Coming to Ames County, Wisconsin:
Yes—67 percent
No—20 percent
No opinion—13 percent
Approval Percentages for Large, Confined Hog Operations Coming to Tamarack River Valley:
Yes—75 percent
No—20 percent
No opinion—5 percent
Once people had seen the numbers on the screen, some of them looked astonished that the numbers in favor were so high. Of course, this was the first time Randy had seen these preliminary figures, and he had a perplexed look on his face. The figures weren’t close to what he would have guessed, but he remained quiet. He was kicking himself for not having insisted on seeing the numbers and how Emily had arrived at them.
Josh was also surprised. He had expected at best a fifty-fifty approval level for the entire county, with the Tamarack River Valley numbers falling and probably sixty-forty against. Remembering something about survey research from his college days, he held up his hand.
“Yes,” Emily said.
“Can you tell us how accurate you believe these figures are?”
“I surely can. We have followed standard survey research protocols. The error rate is no more than plus or minus five percentage points. It’s clear from our research that the people of Ames County, especially those living in the Tamarack River Valley, approve of large, confined hog operations.”
“Thank you,” Josh said.
“Any more questions?” asked Emily. She stood smiling, the picture of confidence.
Several more people asked questions about how they selected the people who received the forms and how confident she was that the results represented the “true” opinions of those living in Ames County and the Tamarack River Valley.
“I have every confidence in these results,” Emily said.
After a few more questions, Cindy Jennings returned to the podium.
“Let’s give this young woman and her professor a big round of applause for their hard work.” The applause was muted. People were still shaking their heads, not believing that so many people in their county thought large, confined hog operations were a good thing.
Promptly at ten, Cindy declared the listening session closed. She thanked everyone for coming and informed them that the zoning committee would now move into closed session and hoped to have a decision yet this evening.
Back in their car, Randy and Emily, with Emily at the wheel, began their trip back to Madison.
“Well, that was quite a meeting,” Emily said. “Nice bunch of folks up there in Ames County.”
“Are you certain of those numbers? Those are the highest percentages in favor I’ve ever seen.”
“Surprised me a little too,” said Emily. “But statistics don’t lie. Looks to me like the folks in Ames County, especially those in the Tamarack River Valley, want Nathan West to be one of their neighbors.”
They drove on quietly t
hrough the cool April night, reaching Madison about 11:30. “How about stopping at my place for a nightcap?” asked Emily. She seemed not the least bit fatigued from their trip to Willow River and her presentation to a room full of people, many of them not happy about what they saw happening to their beloved valley.
“We should celebrate a little,” she continued. “Most of the hard work of the research project is completed. The preliminary analysis is finished. We’ve given our first report to the public.”
“Thank you, Emily. But I should be getting back to my place. I’ve got two committee meetings tomorrow, and you know how those can drag on.”
“I owe you a lot, Professor Oakfield. You helped me every step of the way with this research project. Come on up to the apartment for a glass of wine. It’s one small way I can say thank you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Randy.
Emily’s apartment was in an older apartment building on Langdon Street, easy walking distance from the campus. Her apartment was on the second floor, its north-facing windows offering a glimpse of Lake Mendota. Emily unlocked the front door of the building. “Up these stairs,” she said as she led the way to the hallway on the second floor and the door to her apartment. She opened the door, and they stepped inside. It was neat and tidy, not at all like some of the student apartments Randy had seen. It consisted of a moderate-sized living-dining room, a small kitchen, a bath, and, he assumed, one bedroom. A large painting of a farm scene hung over a new-looking leather sofa, and a stuffed Bucky Badger sat in a chair near the sofa. A wooden table with four chairs, they looked new, sat on one end of the living room, nearest the kitchen. A big-screen TV took up most of one wall in the living room. The apartment was considerably better furnished than any graduate student apartment Randy had ever seen.
“Would you like some merlot?”
“Sure,” replied Randy. He didn’t want to confess that he didn’t know one wine from another.
“Take off your coat and relax. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Randy felt a bit uncomfortable. What if someone he knew, perhaps one of his students, had seen him enter the apartment with Emily? That would surely set tongues to wagging. He hadn’t seen anyone on the street. Late Tuesday evenings were fairly quiet, even on Langdon Street.
Soon Emily returned. She had changed clothes and was carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, plus some cheese and crackers. She wore a gray UW T-shirt and sweat pants.
She sat down at the table and poured the glasses half full.
“To our research project,” she said.
They clinked their glasses.
“And a big thank you to my major professor,” she said, raising her glass in a salute.
“Thank you,” Randy said. He wondered how he could graciously leave without offending Emily, who had obviously earlier planned to have him stop by after their trip to Willow River.
Emily made sure Randy’s glass remained filled, as they enjoyed cheese and crackers and chatted about the department, other research projects, and university life in general. Randy soon began to feel a little lightheaded— he had little experience with wine, or any other alcoholic beverage, for that matter.
As they talked, Emily put her hand on Randy’s arm and told him again what a wonderful advisor he was, and what a great future he had in the department. Soon, her hand was on his, and he began to feel things he hadn’t felt since he was in high school and had attended the junior prom with a blind date who, as it turned out, was looking for more than dancing. He could feel perspiration beading on his forehead.
An hour later, his head still spinning, Randy found himself in bed with Emily, and neither of them had on a stitch of clothing.
“We . . . we shouldn’t have done this,” he stammered.
“Why not,” she said, smiling. Her long red hair lay mussed on a pillow.
“It’s not . . . it’s not right.”
“I won’t tell,” Emily said. “Besides, wasn’t it fun?” Emily giggled.
“I’ve . . . I’ve got to be going,” Randy said as he began pulling on his clothes.
“See you tomorrow morning,” Emily said. Smiling broadly and wrapped in a sheet, she walked him to the door.
Randy drove the couple of miles to his apartment on Mineral Point Road. His mind was a clutter of mixed thoughts.
30. Newspaper Demise
The morning after the listening session, Josh Wittmore was on the phone with Cindy Jennings, chair of the Ames County Zoning Committee.
“Did your committee vote last night?”
“We did. We voted four to one to approve the zoning change. The university research results took most of the wind out of the sails of those opposing the project. Didn’t hurt that the company promised a pile of money to spiff up Tamarack Corners either,” said Cindy, “but I was a little surprised at those research results.”
“So was I. But the university wouldn’t report erroneous figures. I’ve never known it to do that. Looks like Nathan West will have clear sailing from here on out,” Josh said.
“It looks that way. Fellow from Nathan West called this morning too. Folks from the company will start building next week,” said Cindy.
“I figured they would,” said Josh. “They’ve already waited longer than they like for a decision.”
“Democracy sometimes takes time,” said Cindy.
“As it should,” said Josh.
Josh turned on his computer and read an e-mail from the mysterious M.D. He checked for a return address and saw nothing but numbers and letters. The subject line read: “Something for Your Paper.”
Sold Down the River
Sold down the river.
The vote was four to one.
Four people deciding.
Four people deciding the fate
Of the Tamarack River Valley.
Four people!
Can you believe it?
Democracy run amok.
Democracy at its worst.
Who wins: Big Business.
Who loses: We all do.
We are losing our beautiful
Tamarack River Valley.
What next?
Josh printed the e-mail and set it on the side of his desk. He’d show the piece to Bert and then find a place for it in the next edition of the paper, due out the end of the week. He wondered what he would write about the hearing at the library and the vote taken by the Ames County Zoning Committee. He took the M.D. piece and walked out into the hall and then to Bert’s office. His door was closed—it was never closed. Josh knocked.
“Come in,” a muffled voice said. It didn’t sound like Bert. Josh wondered if his boss was sick. He opened the door and saw Bert with his head down on his desk.
“Are you all right?” Josh asked, surprised at what he saw.
“It’s lost.”
“What’s lost?”
“Everything is lost, Josh. Everything is lost,” said Bert as he lifted his head from the desk. His eyes were red. His gray hair was mussed. He put on his wire-rimmed glasses.
“What’s lost, Bert?”
“Our paper. Farm Country News is gone. Gone forever.”
“What happened?”
“Hector Cadwalader from the bank called about an hour ago. He said he couldn’t lend me anymore money, that he’d given me too much already. He’s pulled the plug on us, Josh. The paper is finished.”
“What are we gonna do?”
“Nothing we can do. Everybody is out of work, myself included. Imagine, we’ve been in business since 1868; that’s more than 140 years. More than a 140 years and now, just like that—poof. We’re no more. Bank is gonna own us, what’s left of us. Cadwalader said he would try to find a buyer. Who’d buy our rag? If we couldn’t make it work, who does he think can?”
Bert looked like he was going to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Josh said. “Just when we had a good story going too. I thought we’d turned the corner, that people were paying attention to us again.”
Bert paused and then said, “Hector said the two of us should stay on to the end of the week, at least until we let everybody know that the paper is dead. He said we should do an inventory of what we have here in the office. He’d make sure we’d get paid until the end of the week.”
“Want me to help you write letters to the bureaus to let them know what happened?” Josh interrupted, not knowing where Bert’s tirade was going to take him.
“I would appreciate it if you’d do that. Draft the letters, and I’ll sign them. Tell everyone how sorry I am that this happened and that I’d tried my best to keep the paper afloat and failed—use your own words. You’re a better writer than I am.”
Josh returned to his office, his mind in a muddle, He worried about Bert; he certainly wasn’t taking the news well. He worried about his own career. What would he do? He had enough savings to last about four months, six on the outside, if he really skimped, and unemployment benefits would also help. He thought about Natalie and their relationship. He had even begun to think he might propose to her someday. But propose to someone when you don’t have a job? She’d laugh at him, and he couldn’t blame her.
He drafted a letter on his computer, taking the better part of an hour to do it. He knew Bert quite well, and he wanted to make sure that the letter sounded like his boss, not like him. He kept it simple, laying out the facts of the matter and explaining that everything possible had been done to keep the paper alive and well. He mentioned other newspapers that had folded and how journalism as a profession was suffering in the face of so much information available on the Internet, almost all of it free.