magazine editors: tony schwartz marty porter contributing editor: laura herman inside: sundcty mctgctzrne books-page four pre-iated blues-page five the news in review-page six Number 10 Page Three September 23, 1973 A small farm auction: End of an era For most of his life, Willard Mull- reed started his day around five in the morning. First, he milked his cows and fed the Black' Angus; later he headed out to the fields where there were corn, oats, wheat and hay to plant and harvest. Often he finished in the dark, as late as ten o'clock. It isn't a secret that the golden years of the small farmer, much like the small businessman, have passed. And so today it is on Mullreed's tiny stake - 157 acres of land just outside Ann Arbor - that the bulk of his time-worn equipment is being auc- tioned off. Like the'other days,' this one promises to be a long one. But un- like the others - 365 of them for "forty-two years 'to be exactly", Wil- lard Mullreed is calling it quits. Today his task lies not in working his equipment, but in watching' as it is sold and carted away - less phys- ically strenuous certainly, but emo- tionally difficult. In front of the plain white farm- house there is an improvised park- ing lot, and portable signs with green 'arrows .have been hastily planted along adjoining Park Road. Behind the house, where the hay had always been grown; tables are topped with boxes of household goods and assort- ed knick knacks are strewn about. Farm implements of all vintages have temporarily joined the normal assort- ment of rusty and weather - beaten debris which sprinkle the grounds of every farmyard in the country. Today, Mullreed has plenty of com-. pany. In fact, he is barely distin- guishable amidst the swarms of his fellow farmers. And mingling among the farmers are an incongruous cos- mopolitan group of antique collectors and bargain hunters, reminders of the farm's proximity to the city. The most important guests, how- ever, are from the Braun and Helmer Auction Service, Lloyd Braun and Jerry Helmer, along with their wives and a clerk from the bank. They get down to business quickly, setting up " a desk for the cashier and distribut- ing numbered yellow cards to all of the potential customers. As the melodic, rhythmic cadence of the auctioneer begins, the crowd gathers around a hay wagon which serves today as both a podium and a showcase. Mullreed is on the side- lines, seeming to consciously avoid the action, oblivious to the prices be-. ing offered for his shovels and horse collars. Instead he paces nervously His gray work shirt and red suspen- ders bob between the clusters of old friends who have come for the occa- sion. "It'll be worse when they start on the machinery," his son Durwood of- fers solemnly. He surveys the fields on which he grew up and nods: "He'll take'it harder then." Drive , fifteen mifiutes away from campus, in any direction and on al- most any road, and you run smack- dab into the world of Willard Mull- reed and his friends. Away from the city and lives which revolve around transiency and short-term academic careers, there lies a tradition of con- tinuity and custom, of habits, hob- bies and friendships' measured in 4 I didn't have no thin' when I came here," Mnireed explains. generations, of jobs built around life- times and spent riding the cyclical waves of agricultural fortune. The farm auction is a vital part of this whole tradition of rural life. Us- ually it is held in the early spring or fall, in time for planting or be- fore the harvest. It provides, at least in part, the chance to trade, gossip and catch up on the latest develop- tions loaded with obscure agricultural and mechanical terms. They wear faded overalls -,no longer a distinc- tive trademark since they been ex- propriated by city-slickers and would- be hayseeds. On their heads are a wide variety of caps, emblazoned with strange insignia - "Funk's Hybrid," "Super-Krost," or "Massey - Fergu- son," they say; "DeKalb," or "Michi- The aleis ore hana prson1l wansongforonefam iy. . . .no one:...is n:quite }'-s:tr who..........bo.ught.....::. the.-::v "fa .rmnr:{.;s: but.....it....is. safe: to {}}:}assume:-"'it won't remai: ': :::::: v:1:n:" a arAorveylog ........ .. . .............. .. .. ...... . ........., ..r::::::.. ": ca ' "- J:"}Jo. : .. .. .:.>;"c-c"c > ac}}:}--o :J: c.- > "He hates to see the stuff go," says his son, "but that's the way it is." "Tell him right," someone else chimes in. "Tell him you just can't make no goddamn money so you're getting rid of the son-of-a-bitch." These sentiments may be little more than the inevitable grumblings of working men, but in any case, the farm has still been sold. In a few weeks the Mullreeds will soon move out. The sale, however, is more than a personal swan song of one family. For while everyone knows that George Steeb and Ed Stacy and God- frey Beck owned the Mullreed prop- erty at one time o'r another before 1931, no one is quite sure who bought it this time around, or for what pur- pose. The talk is of "realtors" and "speculators". A neighboring farmer is said to have been offered two hun- dred thousand dollars for his seventy- five acres, and with figures like that in the wind, it is safe to assume that Mullreed's place won't remain a farm for very long. While the .physical and ideological contrasts between Ann Arbor and its surroundings have persisted, the situ- ation is dynamic. It is similar to the constant struggle between the for- ests and grasslands on the plains, in which two ways of life are in opposi- tion and only one can remain viable. In the not-too-distant future, the ranch-style homes and subdivisions which have already infiltrated Park Road will most likely encompass this farm as well. As the afternoon wears on,, the wo- men vie for the mason jars, dishes and appliances, while the men opt ;for the lumber, lawn mowers, and tires. Finally the two groups converge again for the glorious and long-awaited climax. The heavy equipment and ma- chinery is due to be auctioned off. There are elevators and balers, a corn picker and manure loader, silo fillers, a gravity box, and a Co-op Black Hawk side deliverer. Mullreed.had bought and worked with them all. "I didn't have nothin' when I came here," he comments. Before long three different, trac- tors - an IH Farmall McCormick, a Ford and a John Deere - all start chugging at once. Each one goes back a good fifteen years or more. The crowd gathers close to listen for tell- tale knocks and vibrations. "You got- ta know your sounds," says one inter- ested on-looker with his ear to the motor. Willard Mullreed is 'still standing on the periphery, arms folded, his Pioneer Seed Corn Hat firmly on his head. He isn't watching as the auc- tioneer climbs atop the 1951 John Deere, plants his feet on the seat, and grabs the steering wheel before be- ginning his routine. And he doesn't listen as the shout goes up, "All right boys, shut 'em off ! All right, boys, shut 'em off! We're just about in the home stretch, and it's not going to' take us long now." Dave Margolick is Chief Photographer of The Daily. It isn't a secret that the golden y e a r s of the small farmer have passed. ments in the farming community and as many as one thousand people have been known to attend. Aside from the talk, there are al- ways plenty, of bargains. Embert Johnson, who lives "by the Hilton Ho- tel" in Romulus, proudly totes away some attachments for the front of his combine - a steal, he' figures at five pieces for ten dollars. Milk cans ta- tooed with "2211," Mullreed's number at the local creamery, almost go for, free at the end. And one man leaves the premises with an elusive object he had long coveted: a lamb emascula- tor, purchased for a couple of dollars. "That's what we need on you," a friend shouts at him playfully, "Your goddamn family wouldn't be so big." The farmers here today reflect a spirit of fraternal comaraderie. Their dialect is infused with a semblance of southern, rural drawl; their conversa- gan Certified Seed" or "Smith-Doug- las Fertilizer." Most of the farmers here are older men. On their faces are the accumu- lated stubble of a couple of shaveless mornings and errant streaks of dried tobacco juice; but more than that the gulleys and crow's feet of premature old age. It is as if they rough terrain of the fields in which they labor has been magically transplanted around their eyes, and mouths. There is an unmistakably melan- choly note beneath the county-fair atmosphere of the auction. For at least one participant, it means the end of the line. Willard Mullreed is ostensibly retiring because of age and i desire to take it easy. They are whis- pering around here today, however, that he would have liked to stick it out for a few more years, and that high overhead and taxes made it im- possible. . Photos and Text by David Margolick The auctioneers finish around the hay wagons, alternately cajoling, be- rating, and imploring the recalcitrant to start buying. Lloyd Braun sells fer- tilizer and Jerry Helmer is in real es- tate, but each is a graduate of auc- tioneering college in Iowa and knows the pitch inside out. "Onedollarwhollgivemeadollarandit willcostyoutenintown," one of them yells out. "Look at what I've got for you, boys;" or "How about these old- fashioned horse collars, three for the money?" Fnr 1kit a mnrt nnv, the hiriing iS .' ~ '-SRI <: y :...... .f..,...... :..rk".