What’S The (Gasp) Problem With Grass Field Burning?

The sun was out, the birds were singing and smoke was in the air. Everything was right in my world.

I was in one of the Valley’s better eateries, where seniors can get a cup of coffee for 29 cents and a Big Mac runs $2.15, when I saw him sidle through the door.

Immediately, I was struck by how conspicuous he was by his very desire to be inconspicuous.

The man’s face was lined with care and worry, his skin the texture of parchment, stained by soot and curiously the color of eggplant. Although I don’t like eggplant, I liked him immediately.

Here was a man who didn’t want to be recognized, but seemed in need of a friend. I intended to be that friend.

“How are you doing?” I ventured.

He looked at me suspiciously. “Leave me alone.”

“So, what’s your line of work?”

“I won’t say.”

“A man should be proud of what he does,” I responded, seeing his need to talk.

“I don’t want any trouble.” Appreciating that he was beginning to open up, I pressed on. “Are you a field burner?”

“Heavens, no! How could you ask me something like that?”

I patted him on the arm. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.” “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you very much.”

“And it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person,” I continued comfortingly.

He quickly glanced around to make sure our conversation was private.

“Exactly. It’s not like we mean any harm. We try to keep the grass smoke over on the Idaho side of the state line where it belongs. But that stuff has a mind of its own. And you won’t believe the new bad press we’ll be getting if the people find out we’re burning wheat fields now, too.”

“I thought you couldn’t burn wheat stubble and still get your government subsidies.”

“We just found a loophole.”

“That’s good.”

“No, that’s bad. Some wheat farmers are refusing to go along with us. They say it’s archaic, lazy, bad for the environment and bad for people’s health.”

“That is bad,” I admitted.

“You’re telling me. As if we didn’t have enough problems with the public.”

“You’d think your good intentions and a perfectly good loophole would satisfy the public,” I offered.

“You’d think so. But every time our smoke lays too heavy in the Valley, they start filling up the beds at Valley Hospital and people complain to SCAPCA and start joining groups like Save Our Summers.”

“What do they have against your smoke?”

“They say it contributes to cancer, emphysema, chronic bronchitis and to Spokane having twice the asthma rate of the rest of the country. And they say our smoke is one big reason Spokane has the eighth dirtiest air in the nation.”

“Who says?”

“Federal and state agencies and health experts.”

“Sounds like the same unreasonable people trying to discredit cigarette smoking.”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” he said with a sigh.

“Why don’t you tell people to stay inside the weeks you burn?”

“We’ve tried. It just makes them sore. They tell us the air inside their homes comes from the outside.”

“Then tell them it’s your constitutional right to do with your property as you want,” I suggested.

“They’ll agree, but then insist we keep our smoke on our property. And I’m telling you, this smoke goes willey-nilley wherever it pleases!”

“The experts are blaming all our unhealthy air on you?”

“No, just 15 percent.”

“I’ve got it then,” I said, “Tell the people to take care of their 85 percent before they come whining to you about your 15 percent.”

“Would we have to give back the subsidy money if we do?”

“Absolutely not.”

He got up from his seat visibly encouraged by our talk.

“Did you mean it when you said it doesn’t make me a bad person because I burn?”

“Absolutely.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

I lied.