Tamarack River Ghost (22 page)

“Something else I remember,” said Fred. “The smell. God, do I remember the smell. Nothing stinks worse than pig manure. Mix a little
mud in with it, and some spilled pig slop, and you got yourself a smell that lingers, stays with you down through the years. Never forget the smell of a pig pen. You just never do.”

“I agree with you there, Fred. Which reminds me. Did you read the piece in the
Farm Country News
about that big hog farm in Iowa?”

“I did. That’s the same outfit that’s planning to put up a hog farm here in the valley. Pretty interesting story. That reporter guy, Wittmore, got himself inside one of their big operations. Sounds like Nathan West knows what they’re doin’ though. Remember what he wrote about how the pigs don’t fight over what’s in the trough, because there ain’t no pig troughs, just a fancy feeding place where they git to eat, one at a time.”

“I’m still not too sure we want one of them big operations here in the valley. Remember, we just had twenty or so pigs on our farms. They’re planning to raise thousands of them,” said Oscar. “And none of them ever gets to set foot outside. They never get to see the sun and the blue sky like we’re seeing today.”

“Oscar, you sound like you’re stickin’ up for the pigs. The only reason them pigs is on this earth is so we can eat ’em. That’s all there’s to it.”

“Maybe so. But there’s still something kinda nice when you see a bunch of pigs, maybe ten or a dozen or so, out in a green pasture with their little ones runnin’ along behind ’em. Sight to see. Yup, a sight to see.”

“Oscar, sometimes I wonder about you. You want our taxes to not keep goin’ up, or not? You want people to have work so they can pay your bills? This is a new day. A new day. People are doin’ things different from when we were kids. Them Nathan West folks appear to take good care of their pigs.”

“Maybe so. But I’m still worried about all this. Worried where the country is headed with these big operations, these big factory farms jumpin’ up all over the place,” said Oscar.

The two old men drove on toward the museum in Tamarack Corners, neither saying anything. There was one other car in the small parking lot.

“Well, you ready to see my old hog trough?” Oscar asked, a big smile spreading across his face.

“Damn old hog trough. Seein’ it will bring back a bunch of bad memories.”

Emily, let’s go over the material we’re presenting at the Ames County Zoning Committee tonight,” suggested Assistant Professor Randy Oakfield. “I need to be brought up to speed.”

“There’s no need,” answered Emily Jordan. “I’ve checked the figures a couple of times. We’re ready for this evening.”

“Still, I’d like to look over the data.”

“The surveys are in my apartment, and I just put my laptop with the PowerPoint presentation in the car. Trust me, everything is in good order.”

By 6:30 p.m., the community room of the Willow River Library was filled to capacity. The room had 150 chairs, with people standing in the back of the room. Josh sat in the front row with tape recorder and camera at the ready. Billy Baxter from the
Ames County Argus
, with a camera hanging around his neck, stood off to the side. Josh noticed Ben Wesley sitting toward the back, with a clipboard for note-taking. He also spotted Oscar Anderson, who had spoken up at the winter meeting. Several people coming into the room greeted Ben and shook his hand.

Cindy Jennings, member of the Ames County Board and chair of the Ames County Zoning Committee, called the meeting to order and made a few brief comments.

“We all know this is an important meeting, and we want to hear what you have to say. But please, let’s be civil; don’t interrupt when someone else is talking, and try not to repeat what someone else has said. And to make sure everyone has a chance to speak, we are holding you to three minutes. We have a timer: when it beeps, finish your sentence and please
be seated. I’d add one more thing—please turn off your cell phones.” She reached into her pocket, removed her Blackberry, and turned it off. “Almost forgot to turn mine off,” she said, smiling.

Marcella Happsit, president of the Tamarack Historical Society, held up her hand and was the first to speak. “I would like to read a letter I recently received from Nathan West Industries,” she began slowly:

“And,” Marcella concluded, “we have already commissioned an artist to create the statue. This is a rare opportunity for the Tamarack Corners community. I can’t see how we could possibly not favor Nathan West Industries becoming one of our neighbors.”

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:

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:

“For Ames County and the subsample of folks living in the Tamarack River Valley, we asked—” She pushed the remote again:

“I’ll bet you’d now like to see what we’ve learned? Right? So here goes.” She once more clicked the remote.

“Now let’s move to Ames County.”

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 through 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.”