The Litter Of The Law

Brilliant sunshine flooded Harry’s fields and pastures Monday afternoon, turning golden the sunflower stubble and the plowed fields.

Soil map in hand, Neil Jordan by her side, Harry stepped over a gray fox den nestled between a deep fold in her back quarter acre where she’d planted Petit Manseng grapes. Foxes love grapes, or any sweet things.

Tucker, his snout smushed down in the opening, announced, “Vixen! I can smell old chicken bones.”

A fox’s voice from within called, “I killed that chicken fair and square, Bubble Butt.”

Pewter, daintily following the dog and Mrs. Murphy, paw midair, shrieked with delight at the female fox’s declaration. “Bubble Butt! She called you Bubble Butt. See, I’m not the only one that recognizes your more ridiculous qualities.”

“Don’t worry, she heard you,” Tucker snapped, a little embarrassed.

“I did,” said the fox. “You can hear Fatty Screwloose for acres when she runs her big flannel mouth.”

Appalled at the insult, Pewter flashed to the den’s opening, pushing aside the dog. “How dare you? Come out of there and I’ll pull every whisker from your pointy face.”

“Come in here and say that to my pointy face,” the gray fox challenged.

Enraged, Pewter stuck her head farther into the den.

Sensible as usual, Mrs. Murphy warned, “Don’t go in there. She has every advantage.”

“For one thing, I’m not fat,” the fox sang out, enjoying herself.

Pewter moved in a bit farther, to stare into two golden eyes. She hit reverse in a hurry, waddling back out comically.

Tucker held her tongue.

Pewter sat for a moment, licking her paw.

“Come on, Pewts,” Mrs. Murphy told her. “Time to keep up.” Neither she nor Tucker was fooled by the cat’s studied nonchalance.

The three animals scampered up to be with Harry and Neil.

The gray fox emerged from her den to watch. Ever curious about humans and domesticated animals, she wondered how on earth they could get along, but they seemed to do just fine. She liked Harry’s grapes, so she somewhat liked Harry. Sometimes seeds dropped; some corn kernels from a little patch were tasty. This was a perfect location for a den. Occasionally, Tucker would drop and forget a bone nearby. Those were treasures. But still, spending your life following an animal lurching around on two legs? Seemed odd, and perhaps undignified. Humans were so slow, but the two cats and the dog willingly poked along.

“Right here I have a pH of seven.” Harry turned over some dirt with her boot tip. “I’d like to get it to six point five.”

“Let me give you Centerpoint,” said Neil. “It’s one of my best products. Given that you want to experiment with a small portion—what, four by four feet?”

“Right,” Harry answered.

“Spread it by hand, or if you have one of those walking spreaders, the type people use for small lawn areas, that will do it. Mark your corners and I promise you next harvest you’ll see a difference.”

“All right.”

“You’re fortunate to have good soil. Well, good soil for Virginia. Davis loam. Some alluvial deposits.”

“Most of the lower fields are like that, but Dad really kept at them and when I was little we could use muck from the Bay.” She meant the Chesapeake Bay. “Can’t do that now, but that really helped here. We could also use crushed oyster shells.”

“Calcium,” Neil said, nodding. “Well, that’s the best, but since those things are off-limits now, these commercial applications do provide the same things: calcium, selenium, potassium, magnesium, and on and on the list goes. Soil tests are so accurate today they can pinpoint the exact application you need for your specific crop. Much more cost-effective.”

“Until you hit red clay.” She scuffed some dirt with the toe of her boot.

“Harry, we can even enrich that these days. Clay has important uses. The reason so many early Virginian homes are brick is thanks to that red clay. It’s the devil to dig up. But I mean it, fertilizer today helps even that.”

They turned to walk back to Harry’s house, about a half mile away, glowing in gorgeous afternoon light.

“Neil, how’d you wind up selling fertilizer and other ag products? You didn’t go to ag school.”

“My college major was business and I liked it okay, but an old girlfriend, premed, goaded me into organic chemistry. She said it was the washout course for premed and that included vet premed, too. First, I had to take regular chemistry. Liked it. Then I took organic and found I loved it. But what could I do with it? I didn’t want to be a medical student.”

“I think you are the only person I have ever heard say that they loved organic chemistry.” She smiled.

“Actually, a lot of people do, but you have to have a feeling for it, because it’s not always logical like, say, mathematics is. Magic happens in those equations.” He grinned. “Anyway, I graduated from Amherst with a business degree and starting working at a Monsanto satellite company outside of Minneapolis—great city, by the way. That’s when I realized that, much as I did like the business end of the company, I truly liked the hands-on, using the products. Monsanto gets attacked all the time for their genetic engineering of seeds, etc., but I learned a lot, and, Harry, how are we going to feed billions? Twenty-five million babies are born annually in India and seventeen million are born each year in China. They want Western foods, technology, all our goodies.”

“What’s the number of births annually in the U.S., if you know it?”

“Four point three million.”

“Ah.” The implications were becoming dreadfully clear. “All those people in developing countries … if they can’t get enough to eat, seems to me there will be tremendous instability.”

“There already is,” he said with conviction. “Anyway, I started thinking about what to do to make money based on what I was learning, and I decided to go out on my own selling fertilizer. There are good companies that I can call on, get the best products, and, of course, buy in bulk from Mosaic, PotashCorp. I work with the best. Even companies like Bayer, which made their fortunes in other areas in the late nineteenth century, the early twentieth, now have ag arms. Food is the future, not doctors.”

“I believe that.”

“Harry, in the next forty years, farmers will need to produce more than they have in the past ten thousand, and the biggest grain producer in the world is still the United States and it will always be. Huge corn producer, too.”

“That I know. No other nation in the world has the soils, the variety of climate, that we do. But that huge midwestern belt is gold, pure gold. And we are bound by two huge oceans and have the Gulf right in the middle of the country. Fishing alone is worth billions.”

“Like everything else, it’s politicized. Do I think we need to carefully manage our resources? I do. It’s a tightrope walk, so either some of the environmentalists give a little ground or ultimately millions will starve to death and then a billion or so. There will be nine billion people by 2050 and I think you and I might still be alive then.”

“Who knows?” Harry shrugged. “But I can see you do your homework.”

“I wouldn’t be in business if I didn’t.”

“He kind of smells like fertilizer, don’t you think?” Tucker said.

“It’s a medley of smells.” Mrs. Murphy flared her nostrils.

They reached the back porch.

“Come on in for a Co’Cola or maybe something stiffer,” offered Harry.

“Too early for that.” He smiled. “But I could use something cold.”

“I have some iced tea. Always have it, even in winter.”

“Sounds good.”

The animals walked into the kitchen, where Pewter took up her post next to her bowl, just in case.

As Neil sipped his beverage, Harry unfolded the soil map with the plan of her farm.

Neil studied it again. “You’re very fortunate.”

“I am. Given your business and your outlook for the future, I mean that population growth, how do you feel about housing development?”

“In the next ten years Richmond and its surrounding area is supposed to grow by four hundred thousand people. That means good farmland goes under.”

“Does. Well, it’s happening here.”

“Yes, it is, but if developers will plan entire communities with common gardens, wild spaces, stuff like that, or even build more row houses that share an exterior wall, maybe we can limit the damage. People have to live somewhere and not everyone is meant for a high-rise, especially in Virginia. People don’t move to Albemarle County to live in a skyscraper. It’s much easier to make money as a developer than by farming. We need to find that balance, but profit is what drives all business. There’s going to be more development everywhere.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense for, say, Wesley to buy and build on those acres where the soil is poor?”

Neil leaned back. “Sure. But he also has to consider access to I-64, Route 29, good roads in general. Water. Can wells be dug in places where there is no city water? The whole permitting process is complicated, and like every other county in America, there are people on the board of commissioners dead set against any form of growth or development.”

“Right,” said Harry. “So why do you and Wesley want Buddy’s hundred acres so much?”

“Harry, look where it is! Close to Crozet, a hop to Route 250, maybe a twenty-minute commute to Charlottesville or thirty to Waynesboro, forty minutes to Staunton. Perfect location and the soils seem to be decent, which I don’t like to see built upon, but Buddy’s got corn smut. Those spores have to be in the soil.”

“If he sprays for corn borer, it will somewhat cut down on the smut, not a lot.”

“There is no seed treatment for corn smut,” Neil said, warming to the subject. “You can remove the galls in a home garden, but not for one hundred acres. So he has to burn or plow under the diseased stalks. Burn, then plow, that’s the surest way.”

“He can plant a more resistant variety.”

“Not for Silver Queen.”

“True, but Mexican restaurants like cooking with those galled ears, think it’s a delicacy. And they’ll pay good money for it.”

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up.

“I told Buddy and he called around. Just talked to him this morning, actually. He says he can make more selling to them than he can just selling straight old Silver Queen. It’s too late for this crop—it’s been on the stalk too long—but he’s kind of excited.”

“Harry, you never cease to surprise me. Maybe you saved those one hundred acres from development.”

“Hey, if I can help out a friend, I will. I don’t know if this will help Buddy and his hundred acres, but Tazio and I are going to work to save Random Row. Before Hester was killed, she asked Tazio to head that project. It’s the last thing we can do for Hester, and it’s the best thing we can do for our special history.” She glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Three days until Halloween. Any tickets left?”

“Sold every one.” Finishing his drink, he thanked her, then said, “Well, I’ve got to push off. If you come on out with me, I’ll give you the Centerpoint sample now. Have it in the truck. And I’ll drop some more by later.”

“Great.”

Harry happily followed Neil, Tucker in her wake. The dog didn’t much like the odor of fertilizer, and said so to the cats.

“Powdery stuff,” Mrs. Murphy chimed in. “Goes right up your nose.”

“Always smells a little like dead stuff, which I usually like,” said the dog, “but you can detect other things, man-made odors.”

“Like car exhaust?” Pewter wrinkled her nose and the others laughed.

Ivy Nursery, just west of Charlottesville and the Boar’s Head complex, contained long greenhouses as well as trees and other plants in rows outside the buildings.

Harry pulled into the almost full parking lot right before 6 P.M., quitting time for Susan. She walked inside the main building and there to the side was Susan, creating a wonderful boxwood topiary.

“Harry!”

“Said I’d see you on your first day of work. That looks interesting.”

“My inspiration is the gardens of Harvey Ladew in Harford County, Maryland. So I’m making this little fox.” She put down her shears, pulled off her protective but flexible gloves.

“Let me be your first customer. I’ll buy your fox.”

“Harry, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’d love to. He’s cute as a button.” She touched his boxwood nose.

“My boss saw right away that if I could make foxes and hounds, we’d do a big business. It’s taking me some time.”

“What do you do, outline it first?”

“That’s the thing, you can’t really make a good three-dimensional outline. I have all these photographs.” She swept her hand in front of six fox photographs leaning against the back of the long table at which she worked. A deep metal sink stood in the corner with glazed pots, terra-cotta pots, and square redwood containers on lined shelves. Ribbons—every color imaginable, including the fashionable gauze ones—lined another shelf, the spools affixed to the edge, a bit of ribbon hanging down from each. The trimming and cutting tools hung above the worktable on a magnetic strip. Filling the workroom were the fragrances of potted plants, small trees, and cut flowers.

“You just eyeballed it?” Harry was incredulous.

“Did.”

“You always got A’s in art class. Not me.”

Susan wiped her hands with a small terry-cloth towel. “You got them in physics.”

“I like that he’s running,” said Harry of the topiary fox.

“I thought it would be easier to do than a sitting fox. But I’ll get the hang of it. Hounds, too.”

“Susan, you could do dachshunds, Labs, cats. People could give you pictures of their pets.”

“Great idea. I’ll see if my boss will go for it.”

“Who is the boss?”

“Karen Corriss, you remember her? She was three grades ahead of us.”

“You mean Karen Dillard?”

“Yeah. She married Rudy Corriss.” She lowered her voice. “Apparently he’s not doing too well. Real estate.”

“I can believe that, but, well”—Harry shrugged—“Ivy Nursery has to be an interesting place to work.”

“For one day, it is.” Susan laughed. “Okay, let me take pictures of this on my cellphone so I can show Karen my work and my first sale. You’re a peach, you know that?”

As Susan took pictures from every angle on her cellphone, Harry beamed. “You never called me a peach before.”

“Oh, come on. I have so.”

“Sometimes you’ve called me a good egg. I like peach better.”

The two old friends laughed. Susan wrapped a beautiful gauze bow around the fox’s neck. “Charlie in gold,” she said, calling the fox by his English name. The French use “Reynard.”

Harry held up the creation. “Let me get this through the cash register and I’ll meet you outside.”

They met by Harry’s truck, animals in it.

Opening the door, Harry placed the topiary fox on the passenger-seat floor. “Touch that and I pull your whiskers out.”

“Why would I touch it? It’s not food.” Pewter tossed her head.

“Tucker?” Harry stared right into her wonderful corgi’s brown eyes.

“Not me,” the intrepid dog replied.

“Don’t even ask, I don’t chew greenery,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“No, you just wrecked last year’s Christmas tree,” Pewter reminded her.

“I had help.” The tiger cat’s pupils enlarged as she growled at Pewter.

“Enough.” Harry shut the door, the window open a crack. “These last two months all those cats have done is fight. And Pewter chases Tucker, too.”

“Not for long, I assume,” Susan laughed.

“She does need Weight Watchers, doesn’t she?”

They stood there in the faltering light, coolness coming on. Shoppers left the nursery, purchases in hand.

Wesley Speer emerged, two huge amaryllises in his arms. Harry, on seeing him, ran up. “Let me help. These are beautiful.”

“Thanks, Harry. Hey, Susan. We could have a vestry board meeting right here.”

“No quorum,” Susan said as she walked with them to Wesley’s Lexus SUV.

He opened the back.

“You bought my chest of drawers!” Susan exclaimed.

“Huh?” He stepped back from the inside of the Lexus, a beautiful vehicle and an expensive one.

“My chest of drawers!” repeated Susan. “Baby blue. You went down to Farmville, Number 9, didn’t you?”

“I wanted to get something for Rebecca,” Wesley said, mentioning his wife. “We often go down there.”

“Well, I wanted that one.”

“Susan, I bet if you call down there, they’ll have another one or can get it for you. This just shows what good taste we both have. Rebecca dragged me down there, oh, weeks ago and she fell in love with this. I sneaked back today and bought it.”

“She’ll love you for this.” Harry smiled.

He smiled back. “Every now and then it does a husband good to surprise his wife. I thought I’d carry it up to her dressing room, put it by the window, and place the two amaryllises on it.”

“Lovely.” Susan nodded. “Well, home to Owen. He needs to go outside. I’ll see you …?”

“Halloween Hayride, if not before,” Wesley answered.

The two women friends returned to Susan’s station wagon, parked not far from the old Ford.

Susan kissed Harry on the cheek. “Thank you for making my day.”

“You made mine. I have a fox.”

Susan put her hand on the door handle. “I can’t believe he bought my bureau.”

“Honey, Wesley’s right. Call them up. It’s kind of funny—I’m telling you to spend money and I just spent a little. I didn’t even make a fuss.”

“Maybe we’re exchanging personalities.”

“Nah.” Harry shook her head. “You can smooth over ruffled feathers, make people feel good. I say what I mean too often and suffer the consequences.”

Susan hugged Harry, whom she truly loved. “Harry, I know we are both getting older, because nine times out of ten you now hold your tongue.”

“Mmm, five out of ten.”

“Six.”

“Go on.”

“I am,” Susan said, slipping behind the wheel.