The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County (15 page)

A
fter finishing his breakfast at the Eat Well Café, including writing down the names Oscar Anderson and Fred Russo and noting a summary of their comments about the upcoming sand mine, Karl Adams drove back to his motel. He punched in the number for the Link Lake Supper Club.

“Link Lake Supper Club, this is Marilyn.”

“Marilyn Jones?” asked Karl.

“Yes, this is Marilyn Jones. Who's calling?”

“Karl Adams, with the Alstage Sand Mining Company.”

“Karl, good to hear from you. Emerson Evans said you'd be coming to town to help us launch our new sand mine.”

“Well, I'm here. Arrived yesterday. I'm staying at the Link Lake Motel. Any chance we could meet this morning?” he asked.

“Sure, come right over. We don't open until eleven, so park in the back and take the door to the right, which leads to my office.”

“I'll be there in a half hour,” said Karl. He punched the End Call button on his cell phone and put it back in his pocket. Next he sent an e-mail to Emerson Evans.

T
he sun was already high on this early June day as Karl drove toward the Link Lake Supper Club on a narrow road that fronted the lake. He saw a cluster of fishermen in the cove on which the supper club was located. Karl thought,
I wish I was one of them. It would be a great day to do some fishing. I haven't had a fishing pole in my hand since I got into this mining business. One of these days I've got to slow down a little, take some time to do the things I want to do rather than always doing what others want me to do.

As Karl drove into the empty parking lot of the Link Lake Supper Club, he admired the beautiful, log-sided, well-kept building and the flowers growing along the walk to the front door. He noted the wonderful location of the supper club. It appeared a whole wall of dining room windows looked out on the lake.

He drove around to the back of the building, where three vehicles were parked. He noticed two back doors; he walked to the door on the right and knocked.

“Come right in,” a friendly voice said.

Once inside and with a few pleasantries exchanged, Marilyn said, “I'm so pleased you're here. I've heard of your reputation of bringing communities together—and boy does Link Lake need bringing together. I thought we'd gotten over the hump after the village board voted to approve the mine. But then this guy Stony Field, who writes that stupid column, has screwed up everything. Sure wish we could get ahold of him and straighten him out.”

“Well that's not likely to happen—Stony Field has a great national reputation. Anything we would say in our defense will help fuel his fire,” said Karl.

“You're probably right. But he sure has got people all excited around here, especially that damned Link Lake Historical Society—now there's a bunch of busybodies with too much time on their hands. And that Emily Higgins, the old bat who runs the historical society, she is a piece of work. Got her long nose stuck in every piece of improvement this town tries to make. If everybody would listen to her, this town would be stuck so far in its past that nobody would have a job and all we'd do is run around and look at historical stuff.”

Karl Adams was listening carefully, trying to think of a strategy that might bring the community together once again. Something that would take their minds off the sand mine that wasn't scheduled to open until October, which was five months from now.

“Perhaps I should talk to this Emily Higgins,” he said.

“Wouldn't help. She's got her mind made up and when her mind is made up it closes tight. No room for a new idea, not unless it helps the Link Lake Historical Society.”

“Think I'll talk to her anyway. She might give me some clues about what I can do to bring folks together.”

“You found any housing yet?” asked Marilyn, changing the subject. “That old Link Lake Motel was built in 1950 and has made few improvements since.”

“Haven't had time to look for another place,” replied Karl.

“I know about a neat little cabin right on the lake. One of the few that's for rent. Here's a phone number to call.” She wrote a number on a piece of paper.

Back once more at the motel, Karl called the number Marilyn had given him, reached Blue Waters Realty, and quickly arranged for a place to live. It was right on Link Lake and according to the realtor even had a dock with boat available for his use.
Maybe I'll have a chance to go fishing after all
, thought Karl as he loaded his sparse belongings and headed toward his new home for the next several months—or until the sand mine was operating well and everything was back to normal in the community.

25

A
mbrose Adler smiled to himself when he thought about all the reaction he'd gotten from his recent Stony Field column chastising the Link Lake Village Board. He was hoping that somehow, in a small way, what he had written would change enough minds that the decision to open a sand mine in Increase Joseph Community Park could be overturned. But he also wondered again, should he reveal that he was really Stony Field? If he did, he knew it would trigger a tremendous amount of publicity—and he knew he would hate every minute of the attention. But it could have positive effects: the national attention just might help stop the sand mine.

As he set up his vegetable stand alongside the road that trailed by his farm, he also thought about how successful his little stand had become as an increasing number of townspeople as well as tourists in the area stopped to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Now, in early June, the strawberry crop was about ready, he had lush leaf lettuce, some of the best he'd grown in years, lots of broccoli, outstanding radishes, and in a week or so the first zucchini and green beans. People were listening to the national cry to buy locally: “See where your food is grown and try to avoid buying vegetables grown halfway around the country.”

But he also knew that the tourists in the area found it interesting to visit this old bearded and stuttering vegetable farmer who had a pet raccoon and talked to it.

When Ambrose had everything in order, he straightened the green faded sign that read Homegrown Vegetables. He took one last look to see that his early-crop vegetables were properly displayed, and then he sat down and opened the book he had with him, Henry David Thoreau's
Walden
, a book that provided a foundation for much of his writing, and a book that seemed to be more profound every time he turned to it. Ranger rested in the shade of a nearby tree.

He had no more than opened the cover of the book when he saw the neighbor boy, Noah Drake, pedaling along the road on his bike. Noah was now twelve years old and he often stopped by Ambrose's farm on his way to and from school. During the summer months, when school was out, he often pedaled over to Ambrose's place just to talk with him and play with Ranger. Noah's father, Lucas Drake, farmed his more-than-a-thousand acres just a half a mile west of Ambrose's 160 acres.

Noah liked Ambrose Adler. The old farmer took time to talk with Noah, something that Noah's father seldom took time to do. Ambrose would patiently listen while Noah shared what he was doing in school and what was happening on his farm. Noah had also become great friends with Ranger. Ambrose had taught Noah how to “talk” with Ranger—at least that's what Noah believed he was doing when he fed the little animal treats and it cocked its head to the side and held out its paws.

“Hi, Ambrose,” Noah said as he rode up, climbed off his bike, and leaned it against the side of the vegetable stand.

“H . . . Hi, Noah,” said Ambrose.

“Got your vegetable stand up, I see.”

“Y . . . yup. Want a radish?”

“Sure,” said Noah as Ambrose handed him a couple of big, red, freshly pulled radishes.

“Where is Ranger?” inquired Noah as he bit into a big radish.

“B . . . back there,” said Ambrose as he pointed to a tree a few feet behind the vegetable stand, where Ranger was resting.

Noah walked over to the tree and the little raccoon, recognizing Noah, stood up and walked toward him.

“How are you, Ranger?” said Noah. “You doing okay?” The raccoon looked right at Noah and made a purring sound, its way of communicating.

“Got any treats for Ranger?” asked Noah.

Ambrose reached into his pocket and handed Noah a little treat, which he held in front of the little raccoon.

“What do you say, Ranger? Can you say ‘please'?” Noah said.

The little raccoon purred more loudly and held out its paws.

“Good enough,” said Noah as he handed the treat to Ranger.

“W . . . what's new?” asked Ambrose as he watched Noah play with Ranger.
I wish more kids were this interested in wild creatures
, he thought.

“Pa's pretty darn mad this morning,” said Noah.

“What about?”

“There's this writer guy, Stony somebody. Pa says he's the biggest and most stupid jerk that he's ever known about. Pa says he is forever sticking his nose in the business of small towns. This Stony guy wrote about a town in Pennsylvania where they was doing something called fracking. I think that's what Pa called it. Anyway, this Stony guy wrote a story about that and got people out there all upset and wanting to stop the project.”

“Is that r . . . right?” said Ambrose, trying not to show any expression.

“And you know what got Pa really steamed up?”

“What?”

“The story Stony wrote about a sand mine coming here to Link Lake and how stupid it was of the village board to approve such a thing. When Pa read that piece in the paper I saw his face get red and he slammed the paper down and said a couple of swear words that he told me never to use. Pa was so mad.”

“R . . . really?”

“Yup, almost as mad as he was when this Stony guy wrote about how wrong it was for farmers to grow corn that was used for making ethanol. Boy that story made Pa almost as mad as the one about the sand mine coming to Link Lake. I suspect you know we grow 500 acres of corn on our farm, and most of it goes for making ethanol.”

“I knew you grew corn but not that much.”

“Yup, we grow lots of corn. Pa says without the ethanol market the price of corn would only be half of what it is now. Pa says he wishes, and he said some swear words, that this Stony guy could somehow be shut up.”

“R . . . really,” said Ambrose.

“Know what?”

“What?”

“Pa thinks somebody's going to shoot Stony someday and shut him up for good.”

“Your pa said that?”

“Yup, he did. If I was Stony I think I'd watch out. Bunch of folks in this country are really mad at him and out to get him.”

26

T
he afternoon following his meeting with Marilyn Jones, Karl Adams drove over to the historical society's museum and parked his car on the street in front of the museum store. He wanted to learn about the historical society and its activities and he wanted to become acquainted with Emily Higgins, who was obviously, in addition to Marilyn Jones, one of the driving forces in the Link Lake community.