Tamarack River Ghost (9 page)

“I’ll do that; thanks for the suggestion,” Josh said as he jotted down their names. “I won’t take any more of your time. It was a pleasure talking with you. And thanks for the good information.”

“Any time,” Evans said. “Always here to help. I especially like to work with former students.” Josh couldn’t decide if he meant what he said or not.

A few days after Josh returned to Willow River from his visit in Madison, he got a call from Dr. Evans.

“Hi, Josh,” he began. “I enjoyed our conversation the other day, and I’m following up on my suggestion to have you sit in on one of Dr. Oakfield’s lectures. I checked with Oakfield and he’s presenting a lecture on vertical integration in agriculture next Thursday at 11:00. I asked if you could attend, and he said, ‘Of course.’ Can I tell him you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there,” said Josh. “Thanks for setting it up.”

“No problem at all. Always ready to help out a former student.”

Dr. Randy Oakfield stood in front of a class of eighty-five undergraduate students, mostly sophomores, who signed up for his Agribusiness 205 course, Integrated Agricultural Systems. This was the first university course he had ever taught, having finished his graduate work last June. He’d been teaching the course every Tuesday and Thursday at 11:00 a.m. since September, but he was still nervous when he clipped on his microphone and looked out over a sea of young, mostly apathetic faces. Agribusiness 205 was a required course for all undergraduates enrolled in the College of Agricultural and Life Sciences, so a fair number of the students Randy faced wished they could be about any place other than listening to his lectures and attempts at humor, which seldom evoked more than an occasional chuckle.

Oakfield noticed that a stranger had slipped into one of the back seats and surmised it must be the newspaper reporter Dr. Evans had mentioned. He had decided he wouldn’t make any adjustments to his lecture simply
because a member of the press was in attendance, and besides, he had agreed to meet with him after the lecture.

Randy grew up on a livestock farm in Indiana. Until he landed this job at UW–Madison, he had been in school constantly, from the day he enrolled in kindergarten. He went to college at Purdue, where he majored in animal science and earned a graduate research assistantship in agricultural economics at Cornell. He liked numbers and was attracted to the study of economic theories. He’d found the field challenging. He’d become interested in food systems, especially the production end. This interest led him to the study of vertical integration in farming.

With his new PhD in hand, Randy was extremely pleased to land an assistant professor position at UW–Madison—such jobs had become scarce at the big agricultural universities, which all faced budget cuts and various kinds of entrenchment. He’d expected to do at least a year and maybe as many as three years of post-doctorate work before competing for a tenure-track faculty position.

Randy looked like the stereotypical scholar—he was tall and thin and wore thick glasses, rumpled khaki trousers, and a nondescript shirt with a necktie loose around his neck. And although it was October, he still wore sandals. Though just in his early thirties, he had already gained considerable respect in the field of agricultural economics. His published article in the
National Agribusiness Journal
had won first place in its competition for young scholars.

He snapped on the computer projector and pushed a button on his laptop. Words in big red letters appeared on the screen behind him.

“I assume you’ve all read the assignment, and that you had no trouble finding the material on the Internet.” A few heads nodded in agreement, but most just sat staring at him and the screen, their notebooks and pencils at the ready. Several of them wanted only a passing grade, for which they
had to pass the six-and twelve-week and final exams. And to pass these, they needed to pay attention to the professor’s comments. Having taken the six-week test, they knew everything on the exam came from the lectures.

“In the last twenty to twenty-five years we have seen a tremendous increase in vertical integration in agriculture in this country,” Randy continued. His voice was not especially easy to listen to, because he spoke with little inflection. But he didn’t lack for enthusiasm for his topic, which soon became evident to the minority of students in the room who had turned their initial apathy to interest.

“Much of our meat—whether beef, pork, or chicken—is produced by but a handful of big firms that own everything: the feed that the animals consume, the animals and their facilities, and the slaughtering plants that prepare the meat for our tables. These firms own an entire food production system from top to bottom, which is why we call it vertical integration.” Randy paused and poked a button on his laptop, causing a new visual to appear on the screen: a historic family farmstead with house, barn, and outbuildings with cattle grazing in a nearby field.

“This photo represents the family farm that was so important to the history of this country. These farmers owned their land and their animals. They decided what and how much they would produce. They both depended on and supported their local communities, including the local feed mills, hardware stores, and agricultural supply centers. When they shipped their animals to market, they were often sold at auction to several processing plants that bid against each other. It’s a system the country knew for many years, and it worked reasonably well.

“Most of these family farms were diversified, that is, they may have raised beef cattle, hogs, and chickens, and here in Wisconsin, most had small dairy herds. They grew most of their feed on their own land. The farmers’ families provided most of the labor. Then, a new kind of agriculture came along and slowly began replacing the small family farm.”

Josh wrote furiously in his notepad as Randy continued his lecture. He’d also brought along his digital tape recorder, to make sure he captured everything the young professor had to offer.

Once more, Randy pushed the button on his laptop, and another image, a set of low-slung metal buildings, stretched across the screen with the caption

“All these buildings are owned by Nathan West Industries, the third-largest agribusiness firm in the United States, with stakes in beef, poultry, and pork production. This photo shows one of NWI’s Iowa hog operations. These hogs never see the outdoors; the operation is known as a CAFO, a confined animal feeding operation. It is a prime example of vertically integrated agriculture. At this production site, NWI owns the land, the buildings, and all the hogs. Those who operate the farm are employees of NWI.

“NWI has similar facilities scattered across Iowa, North Carolina, and a handful of other states. The fattened animals are shipped to NWI slaughterhouses. They have a huge processing plant in Dubuque, Iowa.”

Randy went on to explain in considerable detail all aspects of the NWI operation. He noticed that several students were busily taking notes and listening intently to his lecture. Several others seemed to be dozing off or staring into space. His fellow professors told him to expect that not all of his students would be interested—one of the problems associated with required courses.

A new image appeared on the screen. Big green letters spelled out

“The historic family farm surely had its problems,” Randy continued. “Problems with unpredictable weather, low prices received for products, and meeting mortgage payments on land and property. But small family farms had advantages, too. Probably the most important and far-reaching advantage—the farmer was his own boss. He owned and managed the land, and if he was a good manager and had some luck with markets and weather, he made enough money to feed and clothe a family. The family
farm, by definition, involved everyone, young and old, working together— sometimes three generations. At a deeper level, important values about work, responsibility, and caring for the land resulted from the close working relationship the farmer had with family members. These family farms became the mainstays of rural communities, where not only family members helped each other, but neighbors also worked together, worshipped together, played together, and sustained the small towns and villages that served the farms.

“The values and beliefs that sustained these rural communities became a part of the makeup of the young men and women who grew up in them. This dimension of the small family farm is often overlooked and seldom discussed.”

A hand shot up from a student near the front of the room.

“Yes,” Randy said, recognizing the student.

“You’ve been talking about family farms and how valuable they were to rural communities,” the young man said.

“Yes, there is considerable evidence to prove my point.”

“Perhaps. But haven’t we passed the era of the small family farms— shouldn’t we drop them in the dustbins of history along with steam engines, horse-drawn reapers, and threshing crews?”

Another hand from the left side of the room was quickly thrust into the air.

“I was born and raised on a family farm, and I beg to differ—the family farm will long continue to be the mainstay of American agriculture. It’s our history, but it is also our future. When a family farm disappears, more disappears than merely the farm and the people who worked it. An entire way of life is gone.”

The first student’s hand was in the air again, but just then the bell rang, announcing the end of the class.

“We’ll continue this discussion next time,” said Randy, pleased that he’d gotten several students interested in the issue of large farms versus family farms.

As Randy was unplugging his laptop and putting his notes away, Josh stepped forward and extended his hand.

“Josh Wittmore,
Farm Country News
,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Randy. “You work for a great paper—well respected in the agriculture community. In fact, I’ve got on my desk right now a copy with an article about beef feedlots in Missouri.”

Josh was pleased that not only farmers were reading
Farm Country News
but professors as well.

“Nice job with the lecture,” he said. “Integrated agriculture can be a complicated, touchy, and often political thicket, to say nothing about the emotions involved when you talk about the demise of the family farm.”

“Tell me about it,” Randy said, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

“Heard you and your graduate assistant are working on a research project dealing with integrated agriculture systems.”

“We are. We’re waiting to see if we’ll be funded.”

As Josh and Randy walked toward the back of the lecture hall, they met Randy’s graduate assistant, a pleasant young woman with red hair and a bright smile. She was nearly out of breath when she reached them.

“Mr. Wittmore, I’d like you to meet Emily Jordan, my research assistant. Emily is working on her PhD and will be working on this research—assuming we get funded.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Josh.

“And so pleased to meet you as well. Dr. Oakfield said you might be attending his lecture today. He has a lot of information to share.”

Randy blushed.

“I’ve got good news, Dr. Oakfield,” she said. “Very good news.”

What’s up?” asked Randy as he walked from the Agriculture Hall lecture room with Emily. Josh had said his goodbyes and was on his way back to Willow River.

“Dr. Evans called while you were in class,” she said. She was still out of breath, obviously having run from Randy’s third-floor office, where her desk was just outside his office door.

“What?” asked Randy. Emily, who had bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Ohio State University, had begun working with Randy at the beginning of the fall semester. Randy had been impressed with her academic record—more than one reference described her as brilliant. Dr. Evans had assigned Emily to Randy when she first arrived. “You’ve got some common interests,” he had said.

They did have common interests. At Ohio State, Emily studied integrated farming systems, an area of inquiry she wished to continue at Wisconsin. When Randy reviewed her application to the department, he noted that she was the same age as he was, thirty-two. He was a little concerned about that; he expected to work with graduate students some years younger. But the two of them had gotten along very well. Randy had taken a little ribbing from some of his friends because not only was Emily brilliant, she was also beautiful. Randy, always the scholar, had scarcely taken time to look at any woman. For the past five years, his graduate studies and research had consumed nearly all his time. And now, as a new assistant professor, Randy knew that he had to work exceedingly hard if he was to earn tenure and a permanent teaching/research slot in his department.

“So, what’s up?” he asked again.

“Our research proposal to National Affiliated Hog Producers has been approved. Can you believe it? We’re getting the money,” she gushed.

“Thanks to your hard work,” Randy said, smiling broadly.

“They were your ideas, Dr. Oakfield. Ideas that for sure caught their attention.”

The two climbed the stairs to Randy’s office. Randy slid into the chair behind his desk, and Emily sat across from him. They both knew that lots of work lay ahead, for putting together a research project was no small task. They also knew that both of them would benefit greatly from the project—he on his way to gaining tenure, she getting research data for her dissertation.

Dr. Evans poked his head in. “Congratulations, Randy. I got the news this morning that your proposal was approved. Let me know how I can help further.”

“Thanks, we appreciate your support. Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Randy said. He looked at Emily when he said it.

Randy was a little skittish about National Affiliated Hog Producers as a funding source for the project; its members consisted of the major hog producers in the United States, including Nathan West Industries. But Evans as well as the staff at National Affiliated Hog Producers had assured him there would be no conflict of interest. “You have complete freedom to develop the project as you see fit—following the plan you submitted to us, of course,” the NAHP research project coordinator said.