DAY 2 — March 21, 2007
"Ugly Potatoes"
Today I learned that there is a whole other conveyor belt to carry away the dirt clods and rocks. Turns out that I wasn't supposed to be throwing them on the ground! It was cold this morning, and I was glad that I had switched up to the next level of long underwear and brought the liners for my gloves. No dust today and my eyes were nearly back to normal. Hooray!
It was another day of "easy sorting" according to Jim. It's true that there were very few seed potatoes to reject, according to his criteria. When Maureen pushes the green button to start the conveyors, I look to my right, where they come bouncing off the rollers. The belts are about 3 feet wide, and the potatoes rush along in an endless stream. Watching them come at me is like driving along a potato highway.
Occasionally there is a broken potato -- now an then a dirt clod. But sometimes, despite my intense scrutiny, everything looks just fine for what seems like too long. I start to wonder whether I'm just not in the game. I hear the thunk of Maureen, on the other side of the split conveyor, tossing out spud after spud, and I wonder if the rejects are going right by me.
In my mind, I call the reject potatoes "baduns," in the way that a rustic character in a book might refer to persons of questionable character. I'm pleased when I see a rock or clod, because they seem to come in little groups and I can look forward to a few thrilling moments of watching my arm dart out, grab, and place the clod on the conveyor to clod hell.
This morning I was alone on the south side of the belt. It was exhilarating, knowing that I alone was pitted against clods and rot. Then, Angela got back from her Bible study meeting and took her place ahead of me. She gets vertigo, so I let her stand closer to the rollers, where there are fewer miles of tater highway in her line of sight.
Sometimes it seems like Angela goes into her own little world, just touching the potatoes dreamily as they go by, or thoughtfully rubbing the dirt off one, while clods and broken potatoes pass her. I'm thankful for this. I would be lying if I said it didn't let me feel slightly superior. And if she didn't let something pass by occasionally, what would there be for me to do?
Sometimes, when there have been too many good potatoes for too long of a time, I start touching them, too, just to make sure I don't glaze over altogether. Other times, when I hear too many thunks on Mary's side of the belt and none from mine, I sacrifice a potato. Jim said, the first day, that they're okay if they're just a little skinned or knobby, or creased where a root passed through, but if one is just "plain ugly" we can toss it. This led to soul-searching on my part.
Who am I to judge potato beauty? By human standards, one might seem plain, but by tuber standards, it might be Audrey Hepburn. If I chuck it, it goes to be processed into God only knows what. If I keep it, it has a chance to pass its unique personality to future generations as a seed potato. If I were a potato, what conveyor belt would I end up on? Am I too knobby? Too lumpy? Just plain ugly? Isn't is what's inside that counts?
But the pressure of Maureen's persistent thunking is too much for me. I grab one that's fetus-shaped, or looks just a little too like a kidney and purposefully pitch it in the metal chute on my right with a resounding clang. And, in my mind, as if I'll be questioned later by some potato cop in mirrored sunglasses, I rehearse the same defiantly guilty phrase, "I just didn't like its looks."
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*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
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