If you look to the west halfway between the Bevington and Cumming exits on Interstate 35 south of Des Moines, you will see St Patrick’s Church on the ridge above you.  The area used to be called Irish Settlement.  Someday it will be called West Des Moines.  It’s true it could be called West Cumming or North Bevington, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

On this site stood a Catholic church before there was ever one in Des Moines.  In fact, when Fr. Timothy Mullen made Irish Settlement his base in 1852, the next closest priest was in Ottumwa, giving Mullen, and in effect the Parish, an area the size of the current Des Moines Diocese to cover.

Much of the history of the place is owed to one single account of James Gillaspie, a Civil War Veteran, who wrote his recollections down in an article for the Madison County Historical meeting held on March 19, 1907.  He was 77 years old at the time.  He came to the area in 1856 with his parents at the age of 26.  Whether he had much of a memory or gave much an account, no one knows.  He waited to start talking until he was the last one left, however, and this is astute.

His written account was in the process of being lost, I suppose, when in 1956, to mark the hundredth anniversary of the Parish, Fr. John Hart began to put together a more formal history of the place and used Gillaspie’s article as a starting point.  As he branched out to other archives and histories, he found they were celebrating the 100^th a few years too late.  Fr. Hart’s history and, thanks to him, Gillaspie’s are still in circulation today.

In his account Fr. Hart makes no mention of his own name, neither as the account’s author, nor even as the Parish’s current priest.  He’s pays particular attention to the facts, and makes a great effort to demonstrate why those facts are so.  This all serves to make it a good account, but not a very Irish one.  I will retell the story of the founding here, in a more Irish fashion at times, with no malice towards the work of Fr. Hart.

Irish settlers had begun to arrive in the area in the late 1840s.  Hardly any of them were from Ireland directly.  Instead they hailed from New York, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Canada.  The settlement was hardly planned.  The first people probably stopped because North River and its timber made the area particularly attractive.  The later ones stopped because their children kept asking ‘are we there yet?’, and mom and dad decided they had heard enough of that so they were.

The settlement laid on both sides of the river, which led to them being at odds with one another when they finally took up the task of building a church.  Each wanted it on their side. The south siders were motivated by pride, the north siders were motivated by condescension. It wasn’t uncommon for a home on the south side to have a wagon out back, sitting up on blocks.  The common wagon of the period was a Camaro.  The south siders took pride in this.  The north siders were disgusted.

They reached an agreement which said the church would be built on whatever side of the river started a cemetery first.  The south siders, to their credit, were patient to wait.  The north siders looked for volunteers but couldn’t find any.

Anyhow the story goes that early in 1852, a government surveyor was returning from farther west.  He was ill and stopped at the house of Patrick Walsh, who lived on the south side.   Not long after stopping he died, and Mr. Walsh and a few of his neighbors set out to find a suitable place on their side of the river to bury him.

In their efforts they dallied, the exact cause of this is unknown.  There are no Walshes in the area any longer, and that fact gives us ample room to speculate.  Generally, just a little room to speculate is more than plenty for the Irish.  Let us speculate together.

After having relieved the former surveyor of the whiskey bottle the men found in his satchel, and having properly lamented the loss of their quite recent, but dear, old bosom friend, they then set out to find the suitable spot previously mentioned.  It was a matter of stumbling mostly.  Most of the whiskey had still been in the bottle when they found it.

(While we are in the process of speculating, then, it would be an interesting aside to note the difference between German and Irish settlement of the state.  Germans had it all planned out beforehand.  They saw the ridge, placed the town on the ridge, and placed the buildings in the town before there was a building or settler even there.  The Irish sense of planning was considerably more immediate.

At Irish Settlement the number of Catholic families dwarfed the number to be found in Des Moines.  Mullen found only 8 on his first visit to the town, but they were 8 German families, and they went on to help produce a state capital.  The Irish were sprawled out all over the country side, never once thought of building a town, and still haven’t today.  Had it not been for figuring out what to do with our late surveyor, they might not have ever got around to building a church.)

The one thing the Irish could do, however, was spread a story, and the death of the surveyor was a hot topic.  So hot, that enough on the north side found out about it in time to organize, cross the river, and relieve Walsh of the surveyor while his party was still out stumbling through the countryside.  They brought him back and buried him on the first ridge they came to.  The debate ended, and a church of logs was built there that summer.  This last paragraph is not speculation, it’s part of an oral history that was first written down by none other than Gillaspie himself.

The log church they built stood in the middle of what is today the cemetery at St. Patrick’s.  As was their custom, the Irish tended to bury their dead right outside the door.  Probably because the pallbearers got tired of other pallbearers asking, ‘are we there yet?’

The early graves were marked with plain wooden crosses and with no good accounting.  A few years later an effort was to be made to better identify the grave sites.  The night before this was to begin a fire swept through the cemetery, and the markers were lost.

Many thought they would be able to locate the graves of their loved ones, but found the blackened landscape held little resemblance to that which had existed prior.  Only some of the most recent graves were found, and today the earliest marked grave in the cemetery bears the date of 1857.

So it came to pass the oldest grave, which was of one who found and founded, now lies lost.

In 1868 Fr. Brazill decided the parish was in need of a new, larger church, and began construction on the one which still stands today.  Evidently unimpressed with the Irish craftsmanship on display in the log church, he hired carpenters out of Des Moines to build it.  They were going to use milled lumber in its construction at which the locals scoffed.  They maintained logs were the only proper way to build anything, and that milled lumber was a fad.  During construction, with the new walls in place, a storm came up and knocked them flat.  I feel bad for the carpenters, for it’s a dangerous thing to have the Irish proven right on anything.  It only encourages them.  I’m sure from that point forward the locals’ advice moved way past the realms of construction, and broadened in scope to the point where even philosophy was breathless.

Still the carpenters continued on, and St. Patrick’s has seen a lot of storms since.  Evidently, they were German.

A few days before last Thursday, I received a call. “Hey Dan, there’s a meeting of the International Food Information Council this week at the Pioneer Campus in Johnston. All the major food companies like Kraft, Pepsi, Coke, Nestle, General Mills, etc. will have executives there. On Thursday evening for dinner they would like to have a farmer join each table to talk about agricultural production practices. Would you have any interest?”

“You bet,” I said.

So when Thursday arrived, I found myself in the middle of the bustling suburb of Johnston, right next to the Public Library, on an old farmstead looking decidedly out of place and yet beautiful at the same time. There were twelve Iowa farms represented either by individuals or couples, and we made introductions and small talk awaiting the bus of the said executives to pull up.

We were gathered on a deck outside the hay mow of an old barn. In this hay mow was to be dinner, and a bluegrass group was setting up in one corner of it. In another corner they were setting up the beer. While they did, we ventured into the same conversation farmers have anywhere. Asking each other about the weather and their crops. You could have gathered us all at the steps of Mt Kilimanjaro, and in no less than five minutes we would have got to the same conversation we were now engaged in here in Johnston, on the remnant of a farm.

By us on the deck stood another little, tidy bar. This one only sported champagne glasses. I waited by it to see what the group we were waiting on would do. If they all went for the champagne, I would begrudgingly join them, but should any pass it and go for the beer, my big Irish nose would thank them for not having to spend the evening trying to fit itself into one of those champagne glasses.

The bus arrived, and as they made their way from the parking lot I felt a little nervous for the first time. All of them were bound to have titles of one sort or another. I had none. The feeling was no different than if I had forgotten to put my pants on. Surely I could find some title to bestow on myself too. Suddenly it came to me. I had made myself viceroy of farm drainage and cattle operations. Dad became our chief operating officer, and my mother the supreme allied commander. Doubtful I should be meeting any of those that evening.

If I cracked a smile at my success, it was short lived. A second later I heard from a boisterous blonde, “Oh my God, it’s a farmer. Can I take your picture?” So much for being a viceroy. Evidently the cowboy boots had given it away. I wanted to tell her a better photo opportunity might come should I need to fit this nose in a champagne glass, but I relented and let her take it anyway. As she did, I noticed some of the executives passing up the champagne for a beer. Victory had not been elusive entirely.

In the beer line I was standing behind a gentlemen about my age, tall, incredibly fit, well dressed, and with a perfectly square jaw. He introduced himself and told me he was with Kraft. He lived in Chicago, had three kids, and over a beer we began talking of the Chicago Bulls. Somewhere in the process, Ernest came over, also from Chicago. He was with Mondelez, which is how Kraft was known around the rest of the world, until it had recently spun off. I asked them what they liked about their jobs.

“The thing with our companies is that work is so varied. Some others make chiefly one product, but with us you’re at a macaroni and cheese place one day, chocolate production the next, and processing cheese on the third. It’s always something different. I suppose that’s what you like about farming.” I concurred.

“What do you guys raise, Dan? Corn and soybeans?” asked Ernest.

“Actually cattle,” I replied. “Dad really enjoyed the cattle, so when I went to college I took Agronomy classes to sort of balance him out on the crop side. Within a few years of my return, I found I really liked the cattle too. Mom and Dad rented the crop ground out and we focused on the cows and conservation work.”

“What did you grow to like about the cattle?”

“I don’t know to tell you the truth. There’s just something about them. It’s not like raising a commodity; they’re different. There is a connection with the herd. Down our way there are plenty of people that do something else for a job, but maintain a few cows. Some of them are doctors and lawyers here in Des Moines. There’s a sort of fascination with them that doesn’t exist with a field of corn.”

Everyone started to take their tables, so I took mine with them. The lady who had taken my picture joined us, along with three others.

“So what’s the biggest challenge you farmers face today, Dan?” Ernest continued.

“Well in my opinion, the biggest challenge we face is the growing disconnect between why we do what we do, and why the consumer thinks we do what we do. The second, I guess, would be the ability to transfer current operations to the next generation. It is so capital intensive, it will be a challenge for heirs that want to farm to be able to buy out or come to an agreement with the non-farming ones.”

“We struggle with those challenges too, Dan. Your first point certainly, but your second one as well. It’s a particular issue with cocoa and coffee. No one would believe food companies wonder where their cocoa is going to come from, but we do. Most of it comes from small, family run operations, and we are losing them at an unbelievably rapid rate as their children prefer to work in town. We are trying to figure out as an industry how to keep the next generation on them instead.”

“Speaking to your first point, have you seen ‘Food, Inc.?’” asked the woman whom had taken my photo. “Yes,” I replied. “It’s quite a picture that’s painted there, isn’t it?” she continued. “Monsanto, for instance, forcing upon you farmers genetically modified crops. But that isn’t what happened is it?”

“No,” I said, “I was still farming our row crop acres when Roundup Ready soybeans came out. We gradually planted more and more acres to them. We did so because it made good economic sense. They weren’t forced on us. It was a good product and we chose it. It’s the same with BT corn.”

“Yes, but you see what happens when there is that disconnect? All of the sudden someone else steps in and begins to tell the rest of the world what your motives are, whether they are or not. As consumers have become more interested about where their food comes from, our panel has become more interested, and I can tell you in our travels we’ve found a lot that hasn’t been what it was purported to be. We’re fortunate, but not many consumers get such an opportunity. You guys need to do a better job getting your story out there.”

“Well, we are trying,” I said, “but there is a learning curve. Until the most recent generation, all we’ve ever had to be is farmers, you know? In the time prior most Americans, in one way or another, had a family connection to the farm via their grandparents or aunts and uncles. With that connection came an understanding, and people knew where their food came from. That’s not the case anymore. We are trying to figure out what we can do about that.”

“So are we,” she said. “I use to work for the Food and Drug Administration. When I left I had the option to go into pharmaceuticals or food. I chose food. People told me I was crazy. Pharmaceuticals were more profitable, but pharmaceuticals didn’t interest me. They are pretty cut and dried. As Americans we want our drugs. You see a commercial for some drug on television, and at the end of it is two things. One is a narrator quickly reading a list of scientifically proven side effects as long as your arm. The other is this surreal image of a sailboat going across a wheat field. When it’s over, we all decide we want the drug, side effects be damned.

Our decisions on food, on the other hand, have much more complex emotions going into them. Take your GMOs. I won’t argue with you that they are proven safe, but what is battled is their perception by the consumer. The consumer’s perception is just like yours or mine. It is fickle. There are countless research studies that show that. If we label a food “processed,” it has a negative connotation. If we label it “packaged,” it’s okay. We can do the same thing with “genetically modified” vs. “FDA approved.” Now however we label it doesn’t change what it is in the least, but it certainly changes how it is perceived, and I find that incredibly interesting.

Speaking just for myself, I battle a couple of things with what we are doing as an industry. First, in an effort to feed into the consumer’s desired perception, we’ve started slapping labels on everything. You might have noticed “gluten-free” lately. We are putting it on items that never had gluten in them to begin with. Then we have non-GMO, all natural, and organic. These are all different. Every time someone somewhere has a new concern, we slap a label on our label. Pretty soon we are going to run out of real estate. That is one, and it is simply practical.

My second concern is an ethical one. Some of these processes, or lack thereof, substantially impact the cost of the product. While I certainly think the consumer should have a choice in the marketplace, there is an element of an elitist mentality trying to limit it for others. I balk at requiring all consumers to spend more for something science has shown no value for, especially if they don’t have it to spend. It’s off-base to me.”

“Not to mention the impact it has on those in developing nations we export to.” I added.

“Yes, but you know what? You farmers like to talk about how you feed the world, but any study of consumers will show that is the last thing on our minds when we visit the grocery store. Sure, we all like to talk a good game about how we care about what is happening in a developing country, but study after study show’s it plays virtually no role in why we purchase what we purchase.”

“I know. I’ve seen those same studies. As farmers, we’ve traditionally approached it in a way that isn’t making a connection. For the consumer it is about price, quality, and safety. The ‘feeding the world’ bit just doesn’t seem to have an impact with them.”

Dinner was being served family style, and while her and I were talking, we had been grazing on a caesar salad and a dish of beets, cubed and mixed with something resembling dandelion leaves and sunflower seeds. As the beets made their way around a second time, the tall man from Kraft commented, “Beets are the next big thing, you know.” I chuckled. “No, really. All the restaurants on the east coast are working them into their menus. They are the new kohlrabi. You wait and see.”

Soon the sides and the main course arrived, and I tried to remember the proper procedure for passing the dish around. Offer to the left and pass to the right, right? I debated this quietly, until a dish was finally placed in front of me to distribute. As I grabbed it, I realized I was in the middle of two other dishes approaching from either side. I put mine into rotation behind the one I thought it most went with, and let form follow function.

(Meanwhile the salt and pepper, which Mary Foley Balvanz had always instructed are married, seemed to have met with an unfortunate separation. Salt had flew the coup and was in the process of gallivanting around the countryside, with random partners, while the pepper, meanwhile, stayed dejectedly under the centerpiece and wept.)

It was through the salt that I met Michelle, seated two seats away and beside Ernest. “You know I’m a farm girl from East Texas,” she proudly told me. “We still have the farm my grandfather and grandmother started. All of us cousins own it as shares. We all make general decisions from time to time, and I enjoy that, but I figured I would never be bothered with the day to day of a farm again. That is until recently.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well believe it or not, all of the sudden my husband has this crazy idea that he would like to have cattle.”

Ernest kicked me under the table, wearing a large grin. “I told you,” I said. “Everyone would like to have a cow herd someday.” Had Ernest been in town a little longer, I would have had to get him some boots.

Desert was a rhubarb cobbler with ice cream in a mason jar. I took another small victory in the fact that I ate it without wearing it. I soon realized the white tablecloth was less fortunate. It looked like a crime scene missing its chalk line. Before anyone else noticed, it was time for them to board the bus and go.

As a little farmer, I found comfort in their previous willingness to inquire about agriculture, and the understanding they had as a result of it. I was also appreciative of the added understanding they gave me. Underneath the titles of executive or viceroy, holding a beer bottle or champagne glass, and in living an urban existence or a rural one, we were just people. Perhaps the capacities I observed from them were just as capable to be found elsewhere as the topics of weather and crops in a conversation among farmers.

There is an old saying which states the farm market is ruled by both reality and perception. You can have a perfect understanding of reality, and take a position in the market based on that, but if you have forgotten about perception it will come along and kick you in the butt. I suppose you will find yourself eating cubed beets with sunflower seeds and dandelion leaves. Seems the food business is the same way. Here’s to finding a balance someday.

Last Friday found me in a hurry in Winterset around noon.  When you are in a hurry in Winterset, you go to Hardees.  Why that is, I don’t know.  There are several things that are faster—sit down restaurants for one—a doctor’s office—molasses in January.  Most of the faster options require you to get out of your car.  No one has time for that when they are in a hurry.  No, when you are in a hurry in Winterset, you go to Hardees and wait.

This particular visit started very promising, however.  As soon as the woman said, “Hi,” I asked for a “Western Bacon Thickburger, in a small combo with a diet coke.”  For a moment I left her speechless.  She couldn’t ask me if I wanted it in a combo, nor if I wanted to upsize it, nor what I wanted to drink.  I had snatched all those away from her.  Instead all I had left for her to tell me was the total, which she did, and to ask me to pull around, which I did.

I was getting ready to report the feat to the people at Guinness Records, but when I rounded the building I found a beautiful red Cadillac parked 5 feet away from the drive up window with its door opened.  I parked behind it and dejectedly put my phone back in my pocket.

Looking ahead, I could see a knee that made a swinging attempt to free itself from the inside of the car only to come circling back again.  It was not unlike a metronome, and the attempts were sufficient for me to place it in waltz time, hearing my old high school band instructor counting 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3 from the recesses of my mind.  Finally, instead of a knee, came an outstretched, frail arm, which trembled in double time and reached to grasp the pant leg of the foot that wouldn’t budge.

The man had short sleeves on, and on his forearm one could just make out the wide black lines that were the final remnants of an old tattoo.  Judging by his age, which I would have guessed in the 90s, he acquired it somewhere in World War II.  My hurry became less important, and I began to wonder, given his age and frailty, how he would be able to muster up enough grip to pull this foot free by the pant leg.  What I had failed to take into account, however, was the strength of his will.  This had got him through the war 70 years ago and was what had recently powered him out his driveway, down the few blocks to Hardees, middle-eastern oil be damned.  His trembling fingers squeezed the back of his pant leg and pulled the foot free from the car’s body.

His arms were 90.  His will was not.

He tried to stand up but was unable.  So he sat on the edge of the seat crossways and leant as far out the open door as he could.  The gal inside leant out the drive up window down to her waist.  She passed him his drink, which I waited to splatter on the pavement between them, but no, sheer will won the war again.  Change was made in the same manner, and then she asked him to pull ahead.  Getting back in was as big of a feat as getting out was, but he managed, all the same.

As I came up to take his place, the woman’s loud voice boomed, “I’m not so sure that old man ought to be driving.  He didn’t even order at the screen.”  How his failing to order at the screen was the biggest red flag for her was beyond me.  I waited for my food while he waited for the rest of his.  Looking ahead, I could see his clear eyes looking back at me through his big eye glasses and the rear view.  His window was down.

The gal inside had assumed the old man simply hadn’t the capacity to know that he shouldn’t be driving, that he was unaware of his own limitations.  It might have been true, I suppose, and were it it would be something in common he shared with the rest of us, all unaware of our own limitations and puttering around anyway.  But as for me, I thought his eyes spoke to something different and fancied instead that he knew what he was doing.

Whatever loss he had seen in service, he himself had survived to witness another 70 years of it. By now he had outlived nearly all of his friends and was seeing their children and perhaps his own die of old age.  While old age had forgot about him, time continued to work and each day took a little more of what was once his.  Perhaps he understood that giving up driving altogether was giving up his lone out now.  He saw it for what it was, the loss of the freedom he had once thought he was fighting for.

From time to time, then, he fought still, to charge the light brigade down to Hardees.

This made it look courageous in a way.  Yes, it was the type of courage that could get someone killed, but by now he had seen his fair share of that.  Besides, I wasn’t worried; I met him parked.  Prior to meeting him, perhaps I had forgot about him, just as most of the world and old age had.  The red Cadillac was a flare letting the world know he was in fact still here and waiting at Hardees like the rest of us.