The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County (9 page)

“Oh, Ambrose. I will. I will,” she cried, overwhelmed with the moment.

“It . . . was my grandmother's ring.”

“It's beautiful.” Tears of joy streamed down Gloria's face. She wrapped her arms around Ambrose and kissed him. “You have made me so happy.”

G
loria and Ambrose told his parents of their plans to marry. The Adlers were thrilled with the idea. Just the opposite happened with Gloria's parents. Gloria knew that her parents, as prominent Link Lake businesspeople, had been concerned that their oldest daughter was “dating this strange man who couldn't speak and likely had a mental disorder.” Gloria's father had also been listening to his younger daughter, Marilyn, who at age eleven had regularly informed him of Gloria and Ambrose's activities— and said she couldn't understand what her sister saw in this old guy who couldn't even speak his name properly.

At the dinner table one evening, the one time during the day when Marilyn and her parents sat together, Marilyn said, “Do you know what I heard from my friend Janie whose folks have an apartment in the same house where Gloria lives?”

“So what did Janie tell you?” asked Marilyn's father, Fred, who was accustomed to hearing all kinds of tales from his young daughter.

“It's about Ambrose and Gloria.”

“Yes?” He stopped eating and looked at Marilyn.

“Ambrose spends lots of time with Gloria.”

“Yes, your mother and I know that. I wish it wasn't happening. It's certainly not good for her reputation to be seen with that old dirt farmer.”

“Remember that bad storm we had last week?”

“Sure, but what's that got to do with Ambrose and Gloria?”

“Janie said that Ambrose spent the night with Gloria. That she didn't drive him home like she usually did.”

“She said that, huh?”

“Yes, and Janie never fibs either.”

Marilyn's parents looked at each other, but said nothing.

“Thanks for letting us know,” said Marilyn's father.

When Ambrose and Gloria told her parents of their plans to marry, Fred Jones lost his temper and yelled, “You'll marry that stuttering idiot farmer over my dead body.”

Gloria burst into tears. Ambrose just stood silently with his head down and his hat in his hand, for he had heard comments like this since he was a little boy.

Gloria's father turned to Ambrose. “If you so much as come close to my daughter again, I will shoot you. Do you hear me?” Ambrose remained silent.

Since meeting Gloria for the first time in his life he had known happiness and the joy of being close to another person. Now, like a candle flame blown out, it all changed. He walked to the door, opened it, and started the long walk home. He hadn't felt this low since he was in first grade and his schoolmates taunted him about his speech defect.

The next day, Gloria drove out to the Adler farm, all of her belongings packed in her car.

“I am so sorry,” said Gloria when Ambrose came to the door. “I'm afraid Dad meant what he said about hurting you if we stayed together, so I'm leaving.”

“W . . . where are you going?”

“As far away as I can. To California,” Gloria said between sobs. “Will you come with me?”

Ambrose said nothing for a long time. “I . . . can't. Pa needs me here. This is my home.”

“Oh, Ambrose. I will miss you so much,” said Gloria, choosing not to question his decision.

“Goodbye,” said Ambrose, tears running down his face.

They embraced one final time. Ambrose watched as Gloria's car disappeared down the Adler driveway. A cloud of dust remained for several minutes.

After a few weeks in California, Gloria got a job as an entry-level reporter for the
Los Angeles Journal.
She never told her parents or her sister where she worked. And she planned to never return to Link Lake.

T
he sound of an automobile turning into his driveway broke into Ambrose's thoughts about Gloria. He saw Emily Higgins get out of her 1985 Chevrolet and march up to his porch door. It was clear she had something serious on her mind. Ambrose opened the door for her.

“I can't stay to talk, Ambrose, but I've called a special meeting of the historical society for tomorrow afternoon. I hope you can be there.”

“I . . . I can.” Ambrose wondered what was going on but didn't have a chance to ask.

Emily turned, walked quickly back to her car, and was on her way.

Wonder what that's all about?
thought Ambrose.

13

M
ore than thirty-five members of the Link Lake Historical Society filled the museum's meeting room when Emily Higgins called out in a loud voice, “May I have your attention, please?” In an instant the room was so quiet that you could hear a chair squeak.

“Most of you who read the
Argus
are aware that our Economic Development Council has been in discussions with the Alstage Sand Mining Company of La Crosse, and that the company has its eye on the Link Lake community for the development of a new sand mine.”

Heads were nodding. The news of Alstage's interest had spread rapidly throughout the community. As was typical, about half of the people in Link Lake thought it was a great idea and the other half had concerns about having a sand mine so close by.

“I have just learned,” Emily said, catching her breath, “that the Alstage Sand Mining Company plans to open their sand mine in Increase Joseph Community Park.”

A gasp went up from the audience. Members of the historical society knew the park's history and couldn't imagine that any commercial development would ever take place there.

“And even worse,” she continued, “rumor has it that the company plans to build a road into the park and they want to cut down the Trail Marker Oak, which would stand in their way.”

“They can't do that,” said someone from the back of the room.

“I'm afraid they can,” said Emily, “if the village board votes approval of building a sand mine in the park. Why, for heaven's sake, locate a sand mine in the park in the first place, you might ask? Why not somewhere else? Well, word is that the village will not only gain with more jobs, but they will receive a percentage of the revenue from sales of the sand. Since the Great Recession, the village's budget has suffered. The village board sees the sand mine as solving all of their problems.” Emily had a heavy tone of sarcasm in her voice, for she had little faith in the village board and, in her mind, their often misguided decision making.

The meeting went on for more than an hour with people lamenting the possibility of losing the Trail Marker Oak and several suggesting strategies to save the famous old tree.

“Let's hold off a bit until I learn more,” Emily said. “I plan to meet with Billy Baxter at the
Ames County Argus
tomorrow as a first step.” With that she adjourned the meeting, although several people stayed on to talk about the possibility of a sand mine coming to Link Lake and what that would mean for the future of the village.

E
mily Higgins showed up at the offices of the
Ames County Argus
in Willow River the next morning. Her face was red and she had fire in her eyes. In recent years Baxter had gained a renewed respect for older people who stood up for what they believed and weren't reluctant to speak their minds. Emily Higgins surely fit into the category.

“Have you heard the latest about the Alstage Sand Mining Company?” she blurted out. There was no hello, no good morning, no how are you.

“Good morning, Emily,” Baxter said. “And how are you this fine morning?”

“You hear where they're going to locate the sand mine?” she said, as if she had not heard Baxter's greeting.

“Well, I did hear that the village of Link Lake plans to lease part of their park to the mining company,” Baxter said, wondering what else he didn't know about the mining company's plans and deciding he'd better get busy and find out more.

“They are planning to cut down the Trail Marker Oak,” Emily cried. “They . . . are . . . planning . . . to . . . cut . . . down . . . the . . . Trail Marker Oak,” she repeated slowly.

“I must say I don't know much about the Trail Marker Oak,” Baxter said.

“You don't know . . . you don't know the history of the Trail Marker Oak?” Emily could scarcely speak, she was so agitated.

“Should I?”

“Well,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “Your paper ran a long story about that famous and very historical tree in 1952.”

“That was a bit before my time,” he said quietly.

“Well, don't you read back issues of your paper?”

“Well, no, not often. I have lots of other stuff to do.”

“Well, you'd better dig out that 1952 issue and bring yourself up to date, Mr. Billy Baxter, because whether you know it or not, there's a big story brewing and the Trail Marker Oak is the heart of it.”

“And why do you believe that?”

“Because . . . because that damned Alstage Sand Mining company wants to cut it down. That's why,” she said. Her face was even redder than when she first entered the
Argus
offices.

“Oh,” is all Baxter could think to say. He was not accustomed to being challenged by red-faced older women.

“I shall keep you informed of developments,” Emily said as she turned on her heel and exited Baxter's office, leaving him feeling like he did when a windstorm ripped the roof off the newspaper offices a few years ago.

He poured a fresh cup of coffee and took the stairs to the basement, where he kept the newspaper archives. In a few minutes he was reading the 1952 issue where the story of the Trail Marker Oak appeared on page two.
I wonder if the Alstage Mining Company knows all of this history
, he thought as he read about the old oak.

14

A
fter returning home from the historical society meeting, Ambrose unhitched the team from the wagon, removed the harnesses from his horses, and led them into their stalls in the barn. He put some fresh hay in front of them and then returned to his house. He started the cookstove in the kitchen and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. He was furious with what he had learned at the historical society meeting.
What was the village board thinking? Don't they know the potential hazards of having a sand mine so close to a village? And have they no respect for history? To think that they are considering cutting down the Trail Marker Oak, a major piece of Link Lake's past.
Questions swirled around Ambrose's mind as he listened to the coffee pot heating up on the cookstove.

As if able to sense his master's anger and frustration, Ranger rubbed up against Ambrose's pant leg, making a purring sound.

“What do you think, Ranger? Would this be a good time to let people know who I really am and what I've been doing all these years besides farming and selling a few vegetables during the summer? The village seems split right down the middle about a sand mine coming to town, with the clear possibility that we will lose the Trail Marker Oak.”

The raccoon looked at Ambrose and held out its paws.

Ambrose thought back to another time when he had to make a major decision in his life, a decision forced on him by circumstances over which he had no control. He remembered that July day in 1971 so well. He was thirty-eight years old then and had never recovered from losing the love of his life. The Link Lake community received a much-needed thunderstorm the previous night, so when Ambrose walked toward the barn to help his father with the morning milking everything smelled fresh and clean, as it does after a rainstorm. Ambrose's father, Clarence, arrived at the barn before Ambrose to feed the animals before the two of them milked their herd of fifteen cows. Clarence Adler was not much for modern ways of doing things, and the Adlers milked cows by hand even when their neighbors had long ago accepted electricity and modern milking machines.