Upstream, Downstream; The Upper Basin Chronicles, Chapter 8

The Upper Basin Chronicles

Chapter 8

Upstream, Downstream

When March finally gives way to April (even if in May) around the Upper Midwest, the people and the land breathe together a warm sigh, a breath of Gulf air both fertile and moist.

This breath swells lungs and the land as it sweeps up the Mississippi River basin with a wave of northbound songbirds and waterfowl. The basin blushes ocher, soft gray, and pallid green, all muted backgrounds for soon brilliant crocuses, tulips, and jonquils now pushing rapidly upward from some of the richest soils on earth. In woodlands, Dutchman's breeches, trillium, and bloodroot rise through the somber detritus of last fall. Along the old railroad rights of way, and in the rare prairie remnants, pasque flowers, shooting stars, and prairie smoke appear, in all their subtlety and triumph of immense time on earth.

As he drove north to the outlying Ding Darling Elementary School, Alexander Murphy rolled windows down and sleeves up. He'd get Michael and Rose for grocery shopping, and then head home. The first family cookout of the season!. Sometimes, at this time of year he felt really kid-like himself, especially on the initial really warm day like today. He felt caught up with the pre-planting work, the machines could roll tomorrow. Just a few a more soil BTUs and he'd be planting early, as dry as it was right now, anyway.

"Wha-hoooo!" He stuck his head out the pickup window and hollered down the little valley just past Harold's place. Murphy checked his wing mirror to see if there was anyone to wave at following. Only distant memories of youthful, wild, fast car rides over the springtime hills, beer drinking across the county line, and head shaking that he'd survived it.

Lines of yellow busses were beginning to fill with kids when he pulled into the parking lot. He spotted a space next to the silver Honda with the "Keep your manure..." bumper sticker, and turned the Ford right there.

"Lucky me," he said to himself, and began looking first for Michael and Rose among the crowds of youngsters yelling and shrieking at the rare day, all thrilled to be out of school on the warmest afternoon of the new year.

Alexander spotted his son juggling a soccer ball with his best buddy not far away, and gave him the five-minute high sign with spread hand. He knew Michael would interpret that as 10, especially today. (No problem, they may have to wait for me for once, he thought.)

Rose ran up with her friend Mai Vang. "Hi, Daddy! Can we hopscotch a minute while we wait for Mai's dad to come...please! We're just getting good at it!"

"Sure, pumpkin, take your time, it's a beautiful day."

Alexander leaned back against the hood of his pickup and pondered the front doors of the school. Should he wait here, or walk inside to her classroom? He stretched arms overhead, and then behind as if that would help. He let the stretch go with a committed "Pah!" exhale, and pushed off the truck fender.

After one step, Alexander saw that Laura walking straight toward him. He stopped.

Laura Paruzzi was a woman who knew where she was going with her long strides and the confident turn of her shoulders. She was nearly as tall as he was, but no willow tree, either. Her full black hair curled in classic ringlets about her wide face. Her quick brown eyes saw him. She waved. Her smile gathered toward what she was about to say.

"Hey, thanks for calling the other day. Have you seen Harold driving that big manure rig lately?"

Alexander reddened some, "No," he said, "but I'm watching for him. You never know."

"Well, if he dumps anything on you again, just call me," she kidded.

"Hey, that dream made me think about what I really value, why I do what I do," said Alexander. "Tell me about yourself. What made you leave the work on the river?"

"I told myself I would put it aside for awhile in case I ever want to go back, but then I was just out of college with my bright environmental biologist's credentials from St. Mary's in Winona, thinking I could work for the Corps of Engineers. We were doing Clean Water Act 404 permits and regulation work. I loved being out in the field, slogging around, often on the little rivers. But the loss of so many wetlands from political pressure higher up all the time really frustrated me. The people I worked for and with were all great. Yet, the fighting over turf between the Corps and the NRCS made no sense to me. I had a hard time resolving my love of clean water, and the remaining little wild places, with what I was seeing on the land. You know what I mean?"

"That good old cognitive dissonance, yeah, I know it from farming, too." said Alexander. "So how did you happen to want to teach?"

"I decided that real change will be driven by the next generation -- if they understand well enough and soon enough just what the problems are," she said. "I realized that I wanted to convey my love for the water and the land so that the kids will learn how to love them, too," Laura sighed and smiled. "I headed back to school, got my master's in teaching, and here I am doing upstream biology and ecology, while the downstream regulation and navigation thing has a life of its own."

"I think it would be really hard to be growing up today," Alexander mused. "I mean it's great the kids have a teacher like you!" He laughed at himself, "But, you know what I mean, right."

As if to make his point, a mega bass-thumping, accelerator-jerking, hand-graffitied Chevy rolled past the school, complete with heavy tobacco smoke exhaust, and four restless teens inside. The car went by like a black cloud.

"I don't think those kids got it," he said with a roll of his head in their direction.

"They're not the only ones, Mr. Murphy, they may get more than you think. They know this way of life is changing fast," Laura responded. "It's their parents, I'm concerned about. The experts say the current corn-soybean agriculture is unsustainable. Meanwhile, the river is held hostage to transporting the grain, while the nitrogen and phosphorus are making us sick and killing the Gulf of Mexico. Before long, the Central and South Americans are going to capture the corn and soybean market, and what will we be left with?"

"No question the prices for corn and soybeans barely pay the mortgage. If I didn't get price supports, Harold Mundt would already own our farm. But I don't see Iowa farmers giving up corn and soybeans, and cattle and hog operations any time soon," Alexander stated with a grimace.

"And is it right to turn families like yours off the land in favor of even more corporate hog operations and big agribusinesses who own it all for investment reasons and short term profit? I don't think so. Something has to change," Laura parried.

"Farming is tough, no question. Bigger isn't necessarily bad. Corporate farms aren't evil. Seems to me the best farmers make it, and the others, well, retire or sell out," said Alexander.

"So, then it's a good idea for all the little towns around to fold up, and for all the kids to move to the cities? That they will never know what you know, and feel what you feel as an independent operator, and get to farm their own land? They just get a glimpse as minimum wage workers, then?" she asked.

By now , Alexander was feeling the effects of this impassioned speech. Laura's depth of emotion on the issue surprised him. He changed the subject.

"So, do you miss working on the river and in the wetlands?" he asked. "I sure do enjoy getting over there ever so often. It's beautiful around McGregor and the Effigy Mounds."

"You know I thought I would at first, but working with the kids is so much fun, I'm really liking it here. And it's not that far away. There are places on the big river that are windows in time, where the silver maples in spring glow like jade, and the arctic terns dance over the backwaters on their way north. We should go sometime."

"That would be great, take the kids, a picnic," Alexander said hopefully. "Wait a minute, are you asking me out?"

"Not yet, buddy, don't be in such a rush," Laura laughed. "See you later; I'll call you."

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Next week...Chapter 9.

The Upper Basin Chronicles, Chapter 8 was written and edited by John Gabbert.

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The characters presented here are purely fictional, and neither bear resemblance to persons living or dead, nor represent the views or opinions of Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota.