Friday, February 24th, 2012
It is so easy to forget some times. Other times, it is so easy to not want to know. If not knowing or forgetting are not one's forte, there is always willful ignorance. Well, maybe it isn't willful per se, rather a lack of curiosity about things. This is certainly something I don't believe I will ever suffer from.
Honestly, I thought I'd seen all that southeastern Washington had to offer. Tiny little towns, rolling fields of wheat (or some kind of mowed down stubble, since it is still winter) antique shops, paper mills, Walla Walla and the Tri-Cities. Yep. That sounds groovy and well rounded. For all of this, I still found myself surprised at a tiny little town just over the border in Idaho.
A stone's throw north of Lewiston and Clarkston, just a few hundred yards east of US-95, there is a town by the name of Genesee. Being from Upstate New York, Genesee reminds me of a river that flows into Rochester, as well as a local beer- Genesee Cream Ale (Genny 'screamers in local parlance.. apparently they make you belch something fierce). So with this in min and a bit of childish nostalgia, I drive into town to pick up my next load.
Cresting the hill that separates the town from the highway noise, a little slice of America unfolds. I am on the main street of course, which all relevant buildings abut. There is a small school building, all sorts of farm implement store thingies, a self- serve diesel and gas pump accompanied by an above ground storage tank and no people, and what appears to be the main employer of the town: two huge grain elevators, both run by a seemingly communist organization calling themselves “The Pacific North West Farmer's co-op”. I bet it is like those nature food stores with all these dirty hippies owning a share of it. I can sense that this town is a bastion of liberal do-gooders.
Pulling into the second grain elevator as instructed, I stop just short of the scale. It is customary at some places (recycling plants, and grain joints apparently) to weigh before going in, so they have a pretty good idea of how much product they are shipping out (thank you tare weights). It is also customary to sacrifice small animals to the local gods, but not here. We get a pass. I would have pulled onto the scale, but seeing nobody around, and a forklift parked on the scale I park and go in.
Behind a 1960's era metal teacher's desk sits the very incarnation of rural farmer-dom. He's a big guy, maybe about 240, I'd say 6'3” and a bit round about the waist. He's totally got the mesh ball cap on, a pair of plastic thick framed glasses, a pudgy flattened nose, pocked with years of wind burn and sun, and the quintessential Carrhart ® brown insulated jacket and thick pants on. I'm not sure, but I swear he was chewing on something, like a piece of straw, but I may have hallucinated that as part of the experience.
He gets me all checked in, and I pull into a bay with a metal ramp in a different building. Like the old dude at the scale, there is a young guy on the forklift who looks like he is waiting his turn at the higher ranks. He totally looks like a farmer as well, but with a hair net under his mesh hat. Then comes the grizzled veteran, with a few weeks of stubble on his chin, a few less teeth in his mouth and a lifetime of experience at this co-op. I take back any sentiments of liberal do-gooders I may have had before.
Instead of being in the way while they load me, I decide to look around a bit. This is no grain elevator! It's a trap! Actually, it is technically a grain elevator. A dump truck pulls into the stall perpendicular to where I am loading. A loud hissing noise is all around me. That could be the sound of the elevator itself (which is amazingly noisy, I think I saw the young kid wearing ear protection.. I hope) but it turns out that the dump truck is dumping a few tons of yellow peas into a grate on the floor of this shed. The peas go down, getting sucked into the whirling machine then up and off to somewhere. I stare at the pile after the driver leaves, amazed at the pile getting eaten by some invisible means, and also at the notion of how industrialized agriculture has become. I push an errant pile of peas to their doom.
Heading off, I scale my truck once more. I am on the phone trying to get the routing right for whatever crazy plans the company has for me after this load. The man in light brown is there to collect my weights and sign my bills. He's a bit standoffish. He's been like that his whole life with strangers... especially with strangers who are multi-tasking, and apologizing for being on the phone in his presence. Hanging up, I say to him, “this is fascinating, what you all do here. I'm seen all sorts of neat things in my travels, from copper mines, to smelters, to recycling plants, paper mills, cereal factories and so on, but this has been really amazing to see.” He brightened at this and actually smiled, and then I was out the door. (only to run back a minute later to use the restroom, but that would ruin the nice ending, wouldn't it?)
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