Free The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County by Jerry Apps Page A

agitated.
    â€œShould I?”
    â€œWell,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “Your paper ran a long story about that famous and very historical tree in 1952.”
    â€œThat was a bit before my time,” he said quietly.
    â€œWell, don’t you read back issues of your paper?”
    â€œWell, no, not often. I have lots of other stuff to do.”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œAnd why do you believe that?”
    â€œBecause . . . 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.
    â€œOh,” is all Baxter could think to say. He was not accustomed to being challenged by red-faced older women.
    â€œI 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
When Ambrose’s Life Changed
    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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    Ambrose enjoyed milking cows by hand. He had done it since he was a kid and his hands were tough and strong, yet gentle. His father insisted gentle was the only way to milk a cow without getting your head kicked off. It was quiet in the barn while they