Partners In Crime. Alicia Scott

his son stayed in the milking parlor. They watched the water rise—the cold, black water which began to freeze their cows’ lungs. Exposure set in. Then shock. The fat, complacent, gentle dairy cows that had never been bred to withstand harsh conditions, began to succumb one by one—the barn filled with their last scared moans.

      Gabe wasn’t an emotional man. He’d lived on farms all his life, he understood nature was cruel. He’d accepted it all. Now, however, he contemplated taking a shotgun and shooting every one of his cows so they wouldn’t have to suffer the rising water. So the bawling would go away.

      But Gabe didn’t. Because some cows remained standing. Even as the water grew colder, the night darker, they stood. Their companions sunk around them, but some survival instinct, some need deeper than definition, kept them on their feet. If they could try, he had to let them.

      He lost one hundred and twenty-six cows that night.

      The rest endured. When the water finally receded, they sank into the mud, their legs shaking too hard to support them. And he and his son rubbed them down as if they were champion athletes who’d just brought home the gold.

      He had one hundred cows left and twenty-eight calves. His house was ruined, his fields wouldn’t be fit for at least a year. His tractor worked, but the pumps in his milking parlor had to be replaced.

      “I got straw,” he told Josie now, “from the last batch donated from Oregon. But there wasn’t much alfalfa given out. Sly’s letting me use one of his fields, but grass ain’t enough for dairy. I’m gonna need forty…fifty thousand in feed to get through the winter.”

      “Did you go to the fairgrounds and talk to FEMA?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He twisted his baseball cap nervously. “There’s all these agent people sitting around the Exhibition Hall. You gotta find the one right agency for your needs, they told me. I filled out the paperwork, but no one knew what to do with me. They asked me what I made gross—”

      “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