Tamarack River Ghost (29 page)

As Josh drove along, his pickup window open to allow in the warm spring air, his mind turned to Natalie. Did they have a future together? Could a newspaperman and a conservation warden have a long-term relationship? He surely hoped so. Today, with his new job as managing editor and a considerable bump in salary from his old position, he believed it was possible. But what did Natalie think about it? She was so busy during these early days of the fishing season that they had no time at all for each other. And with all of his new responsibilities at
Farm Country News
, he had little time for a social life either.

Fred and Oscar arrived at Christo’s about the same time on this warm late-May morning. They found their way to their reserved table that looked out on the Tamarack River, now back to its normal flow after the spring breakup and the rush of melt-water coming down from the snow pack in the north.

So far, neither had said anything, not even so much as a “good morning” to the waitress. After sipping his coffee, Oscar finally broke the silence.

“Little ornery this morning, I see.”

“Who’s ornery?”

“You are, Fred. You’re ornery this morning.”

“What about yourself? I don’t hear much happiness coming out of you.”

“It’s a nice day. Nice May day.”

“Well, at least we got that going for us,” said Fred as he sipped coffee and looked off toward the river.

“Always good to have nice weather in May. It lets farmers get their corn in the ground in a timely fashion.”

“Timely fashion. Where in hell did you come onto those words? Those are pretty fancy words for an old farmer like yourself.”

“Heard the county agent on the radio this morning. Ben Wesley said farmers were planting their corn in a timely fashion,” said Oscar.

“Oh,” said Fred.

“Yup, I always listen to the county agent’s radio program. You don’t have to pay one cent for it, and besides that there’s none of that goofy advertising that clutters up most newspapers, such as the
Ames County Argus
and the old
Farm Country News
.”

“I sure miss
Farm Country News
,” said Fred. “Just like my old dog, Rex, that newspaper had become a member of the family.”

“Geez, Fred, no damn old newspaper can be the member of a family. The thing ain’t alive. Ain’t alive like a person, or a horse or a dog. The thing is just ground-up trees made into paper. That’s all it is. Just ground up wood.”

“Trees were once alive,” muttered Fred.

Oscar shook his head and held out his near-empty cup of coffee for the waitress to fill when she walked by.

“Bought myself a present,” Oscar said after a long pause.

“Ain’t your birthday. Ain’t Christmas either. Why’d you do that?

“Just thought I would. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You gonna tell me what it is? What present you bought?”

“Nope, I ain’t.”

“You’re not gonna tell me.”

“Nope.” Oscar took a long sip of his coffee and smiled. “But if you stop by my place on your way home, I’ll show it to you. You’ll be the first person outside of myself to see what I bought. You got time to stop by on your way home?”

“Might be able to work it into my schedule. Pretty busy these days. Got my garden to plant, got strawberries to hoe, gotta put away my ice-fishing gear. Got lots to do. Busy time. May’s a busy time.”

“You think you’d be able to work a visit at my place into your schedule?”

“Might be able to do that. Might be able to put off some of these jobs that are demanding my attention. Kinda curious, I must say. Kinda curious about what present you bought for yourself. Especially knowing that you squeeze every nickel before you spend it.” Fred grinned when he said it.

A short time later, the two old men were standing in Oscar’s kitchen, where a little table had been pushed next to the wall. Oscar’s new present stood on the table.

“So where’s that new present you bought for yourself—that big mystery present?” asked Fred.

“You blind, Fred? There she is, sitting right in front of you.”

“You mean that TV sittin’ on that little table? You broke up my morning’s busy schedule to look at a damn TV?”

“Fred, look a little closer, that ain’t no TV. Looks like a TV, but it’s a lot more than a TV. Does a lot more than a TV does.”

“You didn’t go off and buy a computer, did you? You showin’ me a computer?”

“Yup, that’s what I did. Bought myself a new computer. Fellow delivered it yesterday. Set it up for me and started me usin’ it.”

“Oscar, I thought you was one of them who said that it’d be over your dead body before a computer ever found its way into this house. You’re lookin’ mostly alive to me.”

“Changed my mind. Decided it was time I joined the twenty-first century.”

“Well, you gonna show me how she works? About the only computers I see are the ones at the library in Willow River—I didn’t pay much attention, but it did look like ordinary people were workin’ ’em.”

“Nothin’ much to it. Here, I’ll show you.” Oscar flipped a couple of switches, and the screen glowed and a little box standing on the floor began humming. Oscar typed a couple of letters on the keyboard, and the
Farm Country News
logo appeared on the screen after a brief wait.

“That’s the new
Farm Country News
,” Oscar said. “Read it right on the computer screen. Read it anywhere in the world.”

“So, you’re going on a trip?” Fred asked.

“No, I ain’t going on no trip. I just said that now you can read
Farm Country News
wherever there’s a computer. Slick as can be.”

“I’d rather hold the newspaper in my hands, have it right in front of me when I sit by the stove on a cold winter day. Don’t like the idea of sitting in front of one these damn glowing screens. Staring at that thing will give you a headache, Oscar.”

“Fred, it’s the future. These days, if you ain’t got yourself a computer, you’re gonna be left behind in the sands of time.”

“There you go again, sounding all fluffy. ‘Sands of time.’ Never heard you use them words before.”

“Those are poet’s words, Fred. Poet’s words.
Farm Country News
, besides everything else it contains, has a poetry section. A section just on country poetry. Think I’ll send something in. I just type up a poem and e-mail it in. Don’t even need an envelope or a stamp. Easy as can be.”

“Oscar, you ain’t no poet. Never have been. Never will be. You didn’t even graduate from high school. Poets need to know lots of words. Need to string ’em together in special ways.”

“I’m gonna send one of my poems in—you don’t know that I got a whole drawer full of ’em; been scratching poems down for more than twenty years. Been doing it a long time. Paper’s got a new system since it’s gone electronic—easy to get my stuff published. Just send in the poem, along with my credit card number.”

“Your credit card number?”

“Well, you don’t think they’d run my poems for free, do you? Gotta pay to have ’em printed. Just like everybody else. You want something in the paper, you pay to have it there. It’s a new world, Fred. A new world.”

“I think I liked the old way better, Oscar. I guess I’ll just have to be content wallowing around in the sands of time.”

Fred didn’t say anything for a time as Oscar fumbled with the computer mouse and brought up another screen of
Farm Country News
material.

“Wonder what the Tamarack River Ghost thinks about computers?” asked Fred as he stared at the screen. He was smiling.

“How’d you happen to think about the ghost just now?”

“Staring at that screen did it. Looking at those words coming up on that screen seems kind of mysterious to me. Kind of like the old river ghost sneaking around in the mists at night. Kind of like that.”

“Maybe so. Maybe so,” said Oscar. “Wouldn’t that be something, Fred, if right out of the blue words would come up on this screen and they’d be writ by the old ghost? Wouldn’t that be something? Make people sit up and pay attention. Make ’em believers.”

“Wonder what the ghost thinks of that big hog house going up on the old golf course? Wonder what the ghost would have to say about that?” asked Fred.

“I guess we’ll see soon enough,” said Oscar. “I can’t believe the Tamarack River Ghost can be too happy about all that activity going on so near to his empty grave.”

As Josh followed the road into the former golf course, he saw bulldozers working, moving huge piles of soil in preparation for the buildings. A big concrete truck grumbled ahead of him, its enormous red body slowly turning, diesel fumes spurting from its silver exhaust pipe. As he topped a little rise, he could see the Tamarack River in the distance, a blue ribbon contrasting with the browns of construction, moving quietly as enormous equipment loudly tore up the landscape. As he approached the now abandoned condominium development, he spotted a small sign, “Nathan West Office,” with an arrow pointing toward the end unit. He parked his pickup, got out, walked to the door marked “office,” and stepped inside.

“Good to see you again,” said Ed Clark, emerging from a back room. He extended his hand to Josh.

“How’s it going?” asked Josh.

“See for yourself,” said Clark, motioning his arm toward all the building activity visible through the open door.

“Mind if I record our conversation and snap some photos?”

“Don’t mind at all,” said Clark, smiling. Together they walked toward an enormous building that appeared nearly completed.

“Tell me about this building,” said Josh. “How big is it? What will it house?”

“This building is 82 feet wide and 740 feet long. It’s where we’ll house our bred sows.”

“How many?”

“About three thousand is its capacity.”

“Not many buildings this big in Ames County,” said Josh as he snapped several photos.

“Want a look inside?”

“Sure do.”

The inside of the windowless building was gleaming white—the ceiling, the walls, the dividing gates. Everything smelled new: the freshly painted walls, the poured concrete floors in the aisles, the new wooden slated floors in the pens. Banks of lights in the ceiling made the building brighter than daylight. As far as Josh could see were pens, designed to hold about fifteen sows each. Josh remembered the visit to the Nathan West facility in Iowa, one almost identical to this one. He once more noticed the automatic feeding stations, shiny and new, with their computerized systems that recorded how much feed each sow ate. He noticed the automatic watering systems as well.

“Everything is controlled by computers,” Clark pointed out. “This will be the most up-to-date, most state-of-the-art hog facility in the United States, likely in the world. We’re quite proud of what we’re able to do here.”

Josh snapped several pictures before he returned outside.

As he pointed to a yellow Caterpillar bulldozer working a few hundred yards from where they were standing, Clark explained, “Over there will be our farrowing house, where the little pigs are born and where they will stay for eighteen to twenty days.”

“What else is on the drawing board?” asked Josh.

“We’ve just begun working on our nursery building, where the little pigs grow to about forty-five pounds. Once they reach that weight, we move them into our finishing houses, yet to be constructed. By the time they are six months old they’ll weigh about 260 to 280 pounds and will be ready for our processing plant in Dubuque.”

“Impressive,” said Josh as he continued snapping photos.

“We’ve got lots to do before we bring in our first sows. But if everything goes according to plan, and the weather stays decent, we should have our first hogs on site by early fall.”

“Mind if I wander around a bit and take some more photos?” asked Josh.

“Wander away; if you have any questions I’ll be in my office. Thanks for coming out.” Josh shook hands with Clark and thanked him for the tour, then climbed back in his truck and followed the winding road through the golf course toward the river. He hadn’t realized how beautiful a site this was, with the slightly rolling hills of the former golf course, now returning to the grassy prairie it had once been, with the river flowing peacefully along one side. Josh found his way to the little cemetery, located on the top of a little rise overlooking the river and surrounded by a woven wire fence, a little wire gate on one side. There, Josh could see the new construction in one direction and the Tamarack River in the other. He parked his truck, pulled open the gate, and stepped inside. Green grass and dandelions greeted him, growing between the gravestones. One large gravestone had the word “Dunn” etched into it. Smaller tombstones read “Amelia Dunn, 1867–1932,” and “Albert Dunn, 1890–1893.” There were gravestones for other Dunns as well.

To the left of Albert’s tombstone, a slightly larger one read:

This was the first time Josh had seen the grave of the legendary Mortimer Dunn, the Tamarack River Ghost. Josh felt a shiver down his back as he stood quietly looking at the gravestone with the river flowing gently along a few dozen yards away. It was a clear and sunny May day, yet Josh felt something strange, like someone was nearby, although he could clearly see that no one was there. He briefly thought he’d caught a whiff of tobacco smoke, and in the distance the sound of a little bell. He remembered the many stories he’d heard about the ghost and how it came in the night, searching for its grave. He recalled how many people thought the former golf course had failed because an early condo buyer claimed to have heard the ghost the first night he was there and left immediately. Josh’s scientific
training and his journalistic, objective mind told him that ghosts didn’t exist, that there was no such thing. But now, after what he had just experienced at the gravesite, he wondered if there might be some truth to the many tales he’d heard about the Tamarack River Ghost.

He returned to his truck and drove slowly back to Willow River, thinking about his experience.
I wonder what the Tamarack River Ghost thinks about this hog farm?
He chuckled. He said aloud, “There are no ghosts. There is no Tamarack River Ghost.”