The Great Potato Empire

When I was growing up, my parents planted acres of potatoes. Not a patch. Not a garden. Acres. We had what seemed to be the largest potato kingdom in the known world (at least it seemed like that to us), and, fortunately for management, a ready supply of child power. My siblings and I were the workforce; unpaid, easily supervised, and motivated almost entirely by the hope that, if we finished quickly enough, we might be released into the wild to do something fun.   

In spring, we marched along the rows placing seed potatoes in the ground. It sounds peaceful when described that way. It was really an agricultural assembly line staffed by children who kept asking, "Are we done yet?" Once the potatoes were planted, the weeds reported for duty. They came early, stayed late, and apparently had excellent benefits. We spent countless winter hours pulling them, each of us quietly convinced that the weeds were growing back faster than we could remove them.   

Fall brought the harvest and, for many years, Dad's potato plough. It travelled deep beneath the plants and lifted the potatoes toward the surface like buried treasure. They immediately needed to be picked up, sorted, bagged, and carried. We followed behind gathering them, always alert for the rare potato shaped like a duck, a heart, or someone's nose. Those were briefly promoted to family celebrities before being tossed into a bucket with everyone else.   

As the potato patch grew smaller over the years, the machinery retired and the forks and shovels took over. Digging by hand was slower, but there was nothing nicer than the smell of fresh earth as the potatoes came up. We left them beside each hole for a few hours so the outside air could dry them. Then we walked the rows with buckets, choosing the worthy ones for storage and pretending not to notice the ones we had accidentally stabbed with the fork. Mom and Dad had both cautioned us to be careful. "We need every potato" "Really?", we thought? Judging by the rows still waiting for us, we felt the family could survive the tragic loss of Private Spud.   

Eventually, the keepers were dumped into burlap sacks and loaded into the tractor's loader bucket. In the early years, they went to the root cellar; later, they went to the cold room in the basement. All of us kids thought the root cellar was splendid. It had a little building on top and stairs that led all the way down into the cool, dirt smelling ground. Fetching a bucket of potatoes for Mom felt less like a chore and more like an expedition, although the explorers were usually back upstairs in five minutes.   

We are still planting and harvesting potatoes today, and perhaps you are too. My favorite part comes just after planting, when I begin inspecting the rows for the first green shoots. Ten plants today. Fifteen tomorrow. Then 20, 44, 63, then 90, Wow! I count them with the seriousness of a census taker. I report my findings to my family (who don't seem to care) but that doesn't bother me. It makes me feel good!   

Then the weeding starts. It is still not my favourite job, but now I imagine I am rescuing the potato plants from all those bad weeds that are surrounding them, intimidating them. I pull and tug until the plants can see daylight again. By the time I have done the best I can do, it is somehow already time to dig. The season passes so quickly it takes my breath away.   

And here we are, digging potatoes again today. Soon they are tucked safely into the cold room: a beautiful harvest of round, smooth, easy to peel morsels. After months of planting, counting, weeding, digging, sorting, and carrying, the Potato Empire is secure for another winter. The workers are older now, but the wages remain exactly the same; fresh air, dirty knees, and all the potatoes we can eat. Happy harvesting!