by Jerry Apps
“Come cow,” the young woman yelled a third time; people in the nearby buildings could hear her.
The cow, unimpressed, turned back to eating hay.
“Let's have a round of applause for a good try,” the judge said, his finger digging at his ear. “You got the volume, young lady, I'll hand you that. Three points for volume. Who's next?”
The next contestant was clearly a farmer. He wore bib overalls and a cap with John Deere emblazoned on the front.
“You ready?” the judge asked.
“I'm ready,” the farmer said.
“Sueee, sueee,” he yelled in a high-pitched voice. A few people in the crowd giggled, some laughed right out loud. Nobody had heard such a cow call before, mostly because it was a typical hog call.
“Sueee, sueee,” the farmer called again, this time slightly louder. The Jersey looked up and took a couple steps toward the farmer making the strange noise. She seemed more curious than anything else. Evidently the little cow hadn't heard this call before, either.
“Sueee, sueee,” the farmer called a third time. The Jersey turned and walked back to her pile of hay.
“Well, that's some call,” the judge said, smiling.
“Yup, been doin’ it for years. I only got hogs on my place, and when I let loose with that call they come a trottin’. Yes, they do.”
“Well, this here is a cow you're calling today.”
“I know that. Figured what'd bring hogs runnin’ would do the same for a cow. Guess I was wrong.”
“Two points for an interesting try,” the judge said. “Next?”
Another farmer, a short man with an ample middle, took his place at the line.
“Dexter Applebee's my name,” the fellow said, extending his hand to the judge. “This where I'm supposed to stand?”
“Yup, and you can start callin’ anytime you're ready.”
The little man stood up to his full five feet four or so, pushed back his shoulders, and lifted up his head.
“Ka-boss,” he said in a loud, clear voice that drifted over the crowd kind of free and easy. The little Jersey quit eating hay and lifted her head.
“Ka-boss,” he called again. The sound had a kind of melody to it, sort of musical, especially the way he drew out the boss part.
“Ka-boss,” he called a third time. This time the Jersey walked out of the pen and began slowly walking toward the man, ignoring the crowd. She came within ten feet of him before she stopped and stood looking, her big brown eyes open wide and her ears standing forward. Then she turned and walked back to the little pile of hay that continued to draw her attention.
“Mighty good showing,” the judge said. “Looks like we might have a winner here. Give you twenty points for that good try.”
“Thank you,” Dexter Appleby said, making a small bow to the crowd. “Thank you very much.” The crowd cheered and clapped, thinking they had just seen the winning performance.
“Any more contestants?” the judge asked, looking over the crowd. A fellow in the back shuffled forward, a tall, thin farmer, who wore a straw hat, pants that were too short, and a shirt with sleeves that ended well before his hands began.
He took his place at the line. The Jersey cow looked up before he even opened his mouth.
“You ready?”
“I am,” the fellow replied.
“Then give it a go.”
“Ka-boss, ka-boss, ka-boss,” the lanky farmer called in a rather soft voice. The little Jersey immediately began trotting toward him and didn't stop until she stood right in front of him. The farmer scratched her head and she nuzzled his shirt. He didn't bother to call the second or third time.
“Guess this here is our winner,” the judge said. “Never seen a cow come so fast to a call. What's your name, fella?”
“Name is Charlie Corkhill.”
“Where you from, Charlie?”
“Over by Pine River, not too far from Poy Sippi.”
“Well, you get the prize this year. Newspaperman over there will want to talk to you, find out how you got to be such an effective cow caller.”
“Much obliged for the award,” Charlie said. “Much obliged.”
After the fair was over, someone discovered that the little Jersey cow had been part of the Corkhill Jersey exhibit and belonged to Charlie himself. A bunch of people made quite a fuss about it and insisted that Dexter Appleby was the true winner and that Corkhill should give up the trophy because of fraud. Corkhill said he didn't know what that word, fraud, meant, and he wasn't about to give up his trophy. And that's how the matter stood. Another fair would come along in another year with another cow-calling contest. Somebody would make sure that a cow's owner wasn't allowed to compete in the Ames County Cow-Calling Contest, and the 1955 contest would be forgotten, by most folks, anyway.
After the cow-calling contest, Andy Meyer hurried back to the horticulture building. It was a few minutes past two, and the cucumber judging should be taking place. He heard a commotion well before he got to the building. He pushed his way inside—a huge crowd had gathered to watch the judging and to see the cucumber king crowned.
Near where the judging was taking place, Andy saw a very red-faced and perspiring Jake Stewart standing toe-to-toe with the cucumber judge, Michael Lauer. Lauer was the agricultural agent from Portage County and had judged cucumbers at the Ames County Fair for as long as anyone remembered. In his early fifties and rather rotund, wearing a felt hat, Lauer was standing his ground against this increasingly angry cucumber grower.
Andy saw his dad in the crowd and walked over to him.
“What's going on, Pa?” Andy asked.
“Judge just threw out Jake's entry. Said his cucumbers are diseased.”
Jake Stewart yelled, “What do you mean, my cucumbers are disqualified?”
“I disqualify any diseased vegetable, and your cucumbers are diseased,” the county agent said in a quiet voice.
“The hell they are,” Jake yelled. “What's diseased about these cukes? Here, look. Look at them. They are perfect. Perfect cucumbers.”
“They are diseased, Mr. Stewart,” the agent replied, not backing down.
“Well, what disease they got?” Stewart asked. His voice was not quite as loud. The crowd around the two men had grown larger; even some of the women from the Lutheran Ladies Aid food stand had heard the ruckus and had come into the horticulture building. So had the John Deere dealer and the International dealer, both of whom had machinery displays just outside the building.
“Your cucumbers have spot rot,” the agent said quietly.
“What in hell is spot rot?” Stewart asked. He was looking at his cucumbers, holding them as one would handle a prized possession.
Isaac Meyer eased near his old neighbor. “Calm down, Jake. No help in yelling.”
“Hear what this bastard judge did?” Jake said, in a quieter voice.
“I heard, but let's listen to what he has to say.”
The judge was talking to the entire group. “Spot rot starts with a tiny little spot, and then it invades the entire cucumber. Here, let me show you.” The county agent picked up one of Jake's cucumbers and pointed to a tiny, grayish spot.
“See this?” the county agent said.
“Piece of dirt. Little piece of dirt,” Jake said.
“Nope, not a piece of dirt. It's a little rotten spot.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jake said. “Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch.” He let the words drag out. “Do you have to tell everybody?” he said to the county agent.
“I want people to see what this is. It's serious,” the county agent said.
“Well, I don't wanna hear any more.” Jake whirled and stomped out of the building.
The county agent then turned to the crowd and began explaining more about spot rot. He said that in some parts of the Midwest, especially in Michigan, it had infected entire cucumber fields and shut down pickle factories.
“It's a terrible disease. Let's hope that Mr. Stewart's is o
nly an isolated case. The disease spreads fast, and there is no cure for it.”
Andy and Isaac Meyer listened carefully to what the county agent was saying. He offered some practical and sober advice. Andy looked closely at the spot rot on Jake Stewart's cucumbers so he could tell Agnes what he had learned the first thing tomorrow.
Outside the building, Andy said to his dad, “Sounds like serious stuff. Suppose we got any spot rot in our cucumber patch?”
“I'll look the first thing I get home,” Isaac said. “Never heard of anything like this. If it spreads, what'll it do to the pickle factory?”
“That's just what I'm worried about. We're gonna have to inspect every cucumber we take in.”
17
Disaster
The first thing Andy did on the Monday morning after the fair was talk to the factory crew about spot rot and what he had seen and heard the previous day. He said that Jake Stewart's entry at the fair was infected. It was a sobering moment. Everyone listened carefully to Andy's description of what to look for in a cucumber infected with spot rot.
“If spot rot gets a foothold here it could wipe out the rest of our season,” Andy said. “But apparently it doesn't hit every cucumber patch. It misses some smaller ones entirely, according to the county agent who judged cucumbers at the fair. But once the disease gets here, nothing can stop it. About the only thing a farmer can do is deep plow the old vines and rotten cucumbers and find a new field for the next year.”
“Terrible-sounding disease,” Agnes said.
“Yeah, could be a disaster,” Andy replied. “County agent said that the ag college in Madison is working on some new cucumber varieties that are resistant to the disease. But that doesn't help us this year.”
“It'll be okay,” Agnes said. “I'll look for the spots and toss out the bad cukes. We'll make it work.”
The first load of cucumbers arrived around nine that morning, and everyone was on the sorter except Helen, who was working in the office. Every cucumber was turned over, looked at, inspected. It took twice as long as usual to sort, but Andy wanted to make sure the cucumbers they bought were spot-rot free. This batch was clean, and so were the next five loads that arrived.
Andy hoped what he had seen at the county fair was an isolated incident. Maybe Jake Stewart had happened onto a few diseased cucumbers and the rest of his fields were disease-free. Maybe that's all it was—an isolated incident. Carlos Rodríguez's truck usually brought in the first load of Jake Stewart's cucumbers around three every afternoon and the second load right after supper. Andy wished his crew wouldn't find any problems with the Stewart cucumbers.
The factory crew had become a well-oiled group by this time in the cucumber season. Things were going smoothly, may be because Blackie was still off work. Even George Roberts had stayed on the wagon, coming to work on time every day and apparently leaving his bottle on the shelf. And Agnes was her usual self, telling tall tales, spitting out witticisms, and keeping everyone entertained.
Just the other day, right out of the blue, she had said, “Better to keep your mouth shut and thought a fool than to start talking and remove all doubt.”
“Huh?” Quarter Mile Sweet had said. He hadn't been listening. The hum and clatter of the cucumber sorter prevented easy conversation.
“I said, better to keep your mouth shut and thought a fool than to start talking and remove any doubt.”
“You telling me that?” Quarter Mile said.
“Nope, just saying it for anybody who wants to hear,” Agnes said, smiling. “It's a good rule, you know.”
“If you say so, Agnes.” Quarter Mile had returned to watching cucumbers tumble down the various chutes and replacing the wooden crates when they were full.
“Hey, everybody,” Agnes had said in a louder voice. This time everyone looked toward Agnes; they knew a story was coming. “You hear the one about the little old lady and the dentist?”
“Can't say that I have,” George Roberts replied.
“Well, this little old lady, just a little thing no more than five feet or so tall, goes to the dentist to have a tooth filled. She don't like dentists—hard to find anybody who does, I guess. Anyway, she sits down in the chair and the dentist gets everthin’ set.
“‘You aren't gonna hurt me, are ya?’ she asks.
“‘This won't hurt a bit,’ the dentist says, and he grabs the drill and leans over to start workin’ on the tooth. Then he gasps and pulls back.
“‘Lady,’ he says, nearly whisperin’. ‘You got hold of my privates.’
“‘Yes, I know,’ the sweet old lady says, smiling. ‘We aren't going to hurt each other are we?’”
The dentist story had even gotten a smirk out of straight-laced Preacher.
At lunch, it was quiet for a time. Helen and the preacher were outside eating together. The rest of the crew sat around the sorter, eating their sack lunches, all except George Roberts. Andy figured he must have gone to the outhouse, which stood a hundred yards away from the factory under some trees and nearly out of sight.
Then they all heard a splash and someone shouting, “Help, help! I can't swim. I can't get out!” It was coming from the number-five pickle vat, which was in the far corner of the factory. They all ran to the vat and peered in. There was George Roberts, thrashing about with cucumbers and salt brine all around him.
Helen and Preacher, hearing the ruckus, also rushed inside.
“I can't get out,” George yelled. “I can't get out!”
Andy picked up a nearby broom and pushed the handle toward George. George grabbed on, and Andy pulled him close to the side of the vat. Preacher and Quarter Mile reached in, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him onto the pickle factory floor.
“Tha’ was a close one,” George said, his words slurred. “About drownded, I did. About drownded in there.”
“What were you doing, George?” Andy asked.
“Juss takin’ a little nap. Crawled on top of the tank to take a little nap. Juss takin’ a little nap,” George said. “Musta fell through. That's it, musta fell through. Right in with those damn salty cukes.”
“You're too heavy for those boards,” Quarter Mile said. “Bad place to take a nap.”
“Devil's got you in his clutches again,” Preacher said, shaking his head.
“You been drinking, George?” Andy asked.
“Only a little swig, juss a little swig, ’nough to wet my whistle. Needed to wet my whistle.”
“That isn't all you got wet, George,” Quarter Mile offered.
“Must smell like . . . like a salted cuke,” George said haltingly.
“You remember what I told you about drinking?” Andy said.
“Yeah, I ’member, ’member good. Real good. This mean I'm fired?”
“Yes, it does, George. You stop by the office, and Helen will write you a check. Sorry, George. You knew the rules.”
“I did know the rules, Andy. Yes I did. I knew the rules. Needed to wet my whistle. Only wanted to wet my whistle.”
George walked slowly toward the office, where Helen had already begun figuring out his wages. Pickle brine dripped from his clothing, leaving a little wet trail from the pickle vat to the factory office.
A moment later, George left the office and carefully climbed down the steps. He said nothing, and he didn't look back.
The crew watched him walk up the road that led away from the pickle factory. He had difficulty walking in a straight line.
Andy was already on the phone with Blackie Antonelli.
“How you feeling, Blackie?” Andy asked.
“Nose is pretty much healed. Still a little sore, but no swelling.”
“You ready to go back to work?”
“You bet I am,” Blackie replied.
“You gonna behave yourself ?”
“Yeah,” Blackie said in a rather noncommittal voice.
“Can you be here by four this afternoon?”
“I'll be there.”
Blackie arri
ved a little before four. He said hello to Helen, shook Preacher's hand, shook Agnes's hand, and said “hi” to Quarter Mile Sweet.
“Lookin’ better than last time I saw you,” Blackie said, smiling.
“Same for you,” Quarter Mile said. He was not smiling.
Before long the big red Ford truck from Stewart's farm arrived, slowly moving down the well-worn road to the factory. Carlos carefully backed the truck up to the platform, and Jesús Moreno and Alberto Torres quickly began tossing sacks of cucumbers.
