The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 5

DAY 4 — March 23, 2007

"Jim's Birthday"*

Angela made a special "older than dirt" cake today, in celebration of Jim's birthday. He turned 58. It consisted of a large bowl of instant butterscotch pudding with crumbled nilla wafers on top. I hope she will excuse me for saying I don't have very fond memories of it.

The spuds were about the same today, mostly good, with a few rocks, the occasional heart-shape, and a fair amount of rot. We filled 11 semi-loads, plus a farm truck. I'm going to ask, one of these days, just about how many potatoes that might be. I expect it's a lot.

Toward the end of the day, there was a bit of tension in the air because we had to stop the conveyor several times. Apparently the buyer fines heavily for any rocks found in the load.

After we four "girls" have done our part, a fellow named Barry checks the spuds over again as they cascade off of the conveyor. Then two men (usually Jim and a young guy whose name I don't know) keep watch on either side of the ramp that goes up into the semi. (Actually, for all I know, there may be other sorters ahead of us on the front end of the machine, but I've never had a chance to investigate.) Each time a rock gets by us and hits the metal roller on its way to Barry, we hear a disappointing ping. If he misses it, and it makes it all the way to the loading ramp, they stop the conveyors to search it out, rather than risk its sneaking onto the truck.

Spying rocks among all those racing potatoes takes concentration -- because guess what ten zillion muddy potatoes ALL look like? (Yes, they all look like dinosaur poo, but that's not what I was getting at.) It's not at all like seeing the blue duck among all the yellow ones floating in that perplexing circular river at the carnival. Every time you snick out a rock, you feel like you've saved a life, or something.

Barry ribs Angela, who is ahead of me on the belt, for missing the rocks. She ribs back, but I can tell her feelings are a little hurt. As usual, I tend to blend into the scenery, so they sort of pretend like I don't exist, which is good by me. I use my best Taoist thinking in order not to worry too much about the missed rocks.

"Each of us is doing his best," I think to myself, "and if we do that, it's the best we can do." Then I sometimes add, "This is only potato sorting, for Chrissake." I don't expect that's textbook Taoism, but it's what I can muster, under the circumstances.

The rocks might not have gotten me down if it hadn't been for the migraine headache. Imagine having a headache that feels like someone drugged you, removed your left eye and the area behind it with an oversized apple corer, and then left you to gradually recover from the anesthetic. Then imagine looking at ten zillion racing potatoes, trying to discern which ones are actually rocks in potato disguise, while the sun shines and the breeze blows through the hole left behind by the apple corer. Then imagine doing all this without the aid of life-giving coffee, but with a lump of butterscotch flavored "older than dirt" cake in your gut.

It's probably my own fault that I got the headache. I got distracted answering e-mails in the morning. By the time I realized it was time to go, rather than making my cute little farm girl lunch of waxed paper wrapped sandwiches and a slice of blueberry pie carried in a Karo syrup can with a wire handle, it was all I could do to grab the jar of almond butter and a loaf of bread and run for the door.

I didn't have time to fill my (deadly?) nalgene water bottle or swill down a cup of coffee. At the red light on Durston and 19th I located a plastic spoon in the glove compartment. While stopped by Smith's grocery, hastily and regrettably, I managed to spread almond butter on a piece of bread, and snarfed down the dry, yet sticky result while speeding down the interstate to the Belgrade exit.

I was very thirsty when I pulled up at Sortingville, but I could hear the conveyors running. I had donned my $3.99 gloves as I drove down Cameron Bridge road, so I charged straight to spudland without any further delay. And you already know the part about the apple corer.

The rest of the day was spent in a rather reflective mood. I alternated between focusing wanly on the dizzying potato highway, sucking down quarts of water and watery farmer coffee, mindlessly stuffing myself with a variety of "Jim's birthday" food offerings and lying down on the ground.

It's a shame, too. This was the best food day, ever. Barry cut up fresh potatoes and French fried pan after pan of them over a propane stove, serving them up with salt out of a big tin shaker and all the ketchup you could want. "Janny," Jim's wife, brought ice cream and peach cobbler in the afternoon. That's also when the wife of that burly fellow I'd taken to be single showed up with at least part of their brood. (Maybe his fingers are too big to fit inside a wedding band.)

Some days the bloom is off the tater rose.

*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.