Alicia Scott - Partners In Crime

“Gross?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I told them two hundred thousand. So then they said I wasn’t supposed to be in the farmer’s line, I was supposed to be in the small business’s. I went to small business’s, but that man said I was a farm, not a small business, and he sent me back to the first agent. Ma’am, I got a farm to get up and running. I got a hundred head to milk twice a day. I can’t keep making appointments, filling out paperwork and standing in line. It’s been more than three months. The farm people finally wrote me a check for twenty thousand. That’ll fix the milking parlor, buy a little feed. Then what?”

“Okay.” Josie raised a hand. She understood how overwhelmed he felt, because in the beginning, she’d felt that way, too. Now, after more than three months, she’d learned how to navigate the system that was drowning him. “We have a few options.”

He perked up. Most of the people she met were honest, hardworking folks, men of action. Bureaucracy and red tape killed them. Things to do made them happy.

“First, I’ll take this copy of your paperwork over to FEMA and talk to them myself. It’s actually net earnings that matter, which is why you were having some confusion. I can get it straightened out for you, though, no problem. However—” she skimmed his carefully recorded financials with an expert eye “—you’ll probably only get ten or twenty thousand more. That won’t be enough.”

The tight look had reappeared around his eyes. His hands methodically twisted his hat. “No, ma’am.”

“Do you have flood insurance?”

He smiled weakly. “Flood insurance for these parts? Seemed too pessimistic.”

“I know, believe me, I know.” Josie opened her filing cabinet and began pulling out flyers. Grand Springs hadn’t had a significant flood in sixty years. Most people had been caught uninsured. She passed a small stack of papers over to Gabe, smiling when he winced. “They’re not forms,” she assured him, “it’s information on programs for you to consider. It sounds like you’ve started fixing your milking parlor.”

“Yes, ma’am, with the FEMA money.”

“And you’ve been milking your cows?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sylvester has let me use his parlors for a bit. I got my cows at his place.”

“So you have some income?”

“A little.” He looked haggard. “But the price of milk is low, and production is down by half. The cows have been through a major trauma, ma’am. They got respiratory problems, they’re weak…. It’s going to take a year before they’re back one hundred percent.”

“If I can find you feed, Mr. Chouder, can the cows pay for their food?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think so. But that’s it. The rest of the expenses…” He shook his head.

“For now, you need your herd to support itself and get strong. You’ll have a rough winter, but if we can get you through, next year will be better. Has anyone talked to you about the low-interest loans available through FEMA?”

He was already shaking his hands, pushing the paper back. “No offense, ma’am, but you know how much debt I already have? I take more, and I slave for the banks for the rest of my life—or until the next disaster strikes and they foreclose on my farm. No, thank you, ma’am. I’ve seen too many good farmers go down that tube.”

Josie understood fully. Most of the small businesses in Grand Springs were financing their way through the next year. As she’d been telling Hal time and time again, farmers just didn’t have that option. They needed more ingenious solutions.

“I know of a few other programs for you to consider,” she told him quietly. “First, have you heard of the Mennonite Disaster Service?”

“They’re like the Amish, right? I’ve seen them around town. The women wear little white caps.”

“That’s right. They’re not quite like the Amish. They use modern equipment, so to speak. Right now, we have ten Mennonite couples staying at the Boy Scout camp. They drove in to help out. They’re a volunteer service, and they’ve been rebuilding homes and farms across the valley. In their group, they have an electrician and a plumber, so they’re full service—”

“They just do this?”

“Yes.” She indicated the little blue flyer. “They help those in most dire need first. The fact that you have three children and are uninsured may put you at the top of their list. You’ll have to go to the camp and speak to them. If you qualify, they can probably repair your home in a matter of days and help you get your milking parlor reinstalled, as well. They’re very, very good.”

Gabe looked uncertain, but after a moment, he took the flyer. “At the Boy Scout camp, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Talk to them, Mr. Chouder. They’re here for people like you. Someday, maybe you can return the favor by helping build somebody else’s home or barn.”

“All…all right.”

“And the Grand Springs Farm Bureau has opened a bank account for all the donations and fund-raising moneys. A lot of that money will be used to purchase alfalfa to get through the winter. However, you can also apply to receive a small grant. We probably can’t afford to give more than a few thousand per farmer, but it will give you something.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t enthusiastic. A few thousand barely bought a new cow, let alone got a farmer through a winter.

“Finally, I’m looking into starting an adopt-a-farm program.”

“Ma’am?”

“It’s been tried in a few other states, Mr. Chouder, with a fair amount of success. Basically, we would do a bio on your farm and match you up with a volunteer who would ‘adopt’ your farm. They would help out with the expenses, sponsor you, so to speak, for the next winter.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, ma’am. That farm has been in my family for three generations. My son’s interested in it now—”

“You’re not selling it, Mr. Chouder. You’re not giving it away. You’re just getting help to make it through the next year.”

“But…but what do they get out of it?”

“The usual. The sponsor gets the satisfaction of helping someone out. Also, quite frankly, most of these people are well off and benefit from the tax deduction. They also like feeling that they’re giving back to the community and helping with ‘grass roots Americana.’”

Mr. Chouder was shaking his head. “Sounds too much like pity.”

Josie bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from sighing. The program really could work except for one major stumbling block—farmers had phenomenal pride. It was one thing to receive help from their own, quite another to take assistance from outsiders, particularly, rich outsiders.

“It’s not pity, it’s community. People helping people through a rough time.”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t want to have to call up some stranger with my bills. What if I need a new tractor? Do I have to ask permission? Does he get to pick it out? I dunno.”

“Those kinds of details would have to be worked out. I would be perfectly willing to help you work them out. Usually, we create a straw budget for the year, the sponsor contributes his part of it up front, and you go on your merry way. Here, just take this and read it over. Think about it, Mr. Chouder. Please.”

“All…all right.” He took the small stack of flyers. The lines hadn’t eased around his eyes. She’d given him options, but she couldn’t give him answers. Those would take a long time to find as the whole community sifted through the aftermath.

“Do you have any more questions, Mr. Chouder? I’ll follow up with FEMA for you as I promised.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I guess I’m all set.”

“You can stop by any time you like. Don’t be afraid to call me with more questions.”