DAY 8 — April 2, 2007
"Lunch boxes"
The men folk all have the same kind of lunchbox.
They are dark green, plastic coolers, about the right size for going on an overnight camp-out with three or four friends. And they have a really neat lid that holds a manly-looking metal thermos on top. The lunch boxes are often brought to them by their wives, well before coffee time, which happens after two or three loads of potatoes, around ten o'clock.
I never get tired of Jim saying "coffee time!" It's not just the promise of respite from the rumbling hoard, or the thrill of the carbohydrate-laden delights that Mare might serve -- I also like the way he says it. "Coffee time" sounds so 1950s to me. It's kind of refined, in a way. It implies a nice little home-baked spice cookie and a bit of innocent gossip.
It sounds like maybe I should fix my hair a bit (not that such a thing would be possible, since, A. I learned after the first day that you may as well wait to shower until AFTER you are caked in potato dirt and, B. for the past two hours my hair has been plastered down under a hat that I made out of a boiled wool sweater).
Anyway, "coffee time" sounds nice. "Break time" might imply cigarettes, small-scale gambling, going to the can, and possibly even sneaking a beer, but "coffee time" adds a layer of pink gingham to my world of dirt clods and tuberous aberrations.
Usually, like clockwork, one of the wives arrives doubly laden with a thermos-topped green lunch box and a steaming plate of cookies or something. (Do they use some instinctive wifely storm-sense to know which of them is bringing the baked goods, or do they call each other on the phone the night before?) But on the occasion when providence doesn't offer baked goods, the guys dig in their green lunch boxes for a piece of leftover cake, or whatever.
At lunch time, I watch the men get out their sandwiches. They usually look like the traditional construction worker style sandwich -- salami and the like. (All except for Matthew, who, as I explained, receives a hot, three course meal served family style, in clean pickle jars.) Tom eats his sandwich on a hoagie bun.
I try to grab a spot on the bench that will provide enough space for the arrival of the Jason family, and delve up to my armpit into the red mesh bag that serves as my lunch courier. The rat-chewn looking hole in the bag's side is evidence that I had been too impatient to open it from the top when it had first entered my life as a sack of oranges. My sandwich is pepper jack cheese on some gnarly specialty bakery bread. From its looks, I could have baked it myself, but it probably doesn't fool Joyce or any others in the "just baked it" family.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 8
DAY 7 — March 29, 2007
"Russet stampede, continued more"
What was I thinking?
"Russet stampede, continued more"
What was I thinking?
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 6
DAY 5 — March 28, 2007
"Russet stampede"
My sister, Shawna, thought that potato sorting sounded fun and interesting.
I knew that Jim was looking for more people, since Maureen would be in South Dakota visiting her grandkids during the week that we were going to have to sort "those big russets," an event to which Jim referred in a tone that made it sound like russets were something you might release, red-eyed and snorting with fury, from a heavily reinforced corral. So I asked him if he wanted me to bring my sister, and he said yes.
I had some fun, after that, dreaming up what to tell Shawna she needed to bring.
"Obviously, bring your cutlass. They get dull after awhile, so it might be good to bring two..." I mused.
But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Shawna, so I gave up on the idea of trying to dupe her into coming dressed in pirate attire.
I did tell her to bring gloves and goggles. Her imagination had already supplied the rest of her ensemble: The worn (but clean) calico frock, topped off by a pair of men's overalls... The dotted kerchief tied over her curls, with one or two locks venturing out to cling to her careworn cheek... And, of course, the ubiquitous homemade Karo tin lunch pail with the wax paper-wrapped sandwiches.
We met in Border's parking lot at 8, and she actually was wearing overalls, I think, but the rest of the agreed-upon vision was only imagined. She had a shopping bag lunch, and from the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter peeking out, I could see we belonged to the same school of lunch preparation.
It was cold, with flakes of snow blowing in a northeast wind. The russets were stomping and kicking up dust. Our task was to sort for rot, misshapen potatoes, rocks, clods... Oh, and to remove every potato that was larger than 10 ounces, which turned out to be nearly all of them.
My memory blurs. I don't even remember who pushed the green button on the conveyor that first time. But somehow, 500,000 potatoes came thundering off the rollers, choking us with dust. Our arms moved in fast motion, just like in that "I Love Lucy" episode that I have often used as an example of what my perfect job might be. But Lucy got to eat the chocolates. Those big, dirty russets didn't hold quite the same appeal.
It was probably pretty disappointing for Shawna that we didn't get to sing the banana boat song with substituted potato lyrics as she had imagined. She was too busy grabbing oversized spuds off those rollers to look up, or think. They went by so fast, it was like trying to empty a river with a tablespoon.
When, finally, the last potato rolled into the last truck, Shawna went into the break shed to fill out a W-4 form, so she would get paid for her day's work. The day probably equaled about an hour and a half of her professional wage as a technical writer. And it certainly won't be enough to cover the massage work it is going to take to erase the memory of the russet stampede.
"Russet stampede"
My sister, Shawna, thought that potato sorting sounded fun and interesting.
I knew that Jim was looking for more people, since Maureen would be in South Dakota visiting her grandkids during the week that we were going to have to sort "those big russets," an event to which Jim referred in a tone that made it sound like russets were something you might release, red-eyed and snorting with fury, from a heavily reinforced corral. So I asked him if he wanted me to bring my sister, and he said yes.
I had some fun, after that, dreaming up what to tell Shawna she needed to bring.
"Obviously, bring your cutlass. They get dull after awhile, so it might be good to bring two..." I mused.
But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Shawna, so I gave up on the idea of trying to dupe her into coming dressed in pirate attire.
I did tell her to bring gloves and goggles. Her imagination had already supplied the rest of her ensemble: The worn (but clean) calico frock, topped off by a pair of men's overalls... The dotted kerchief tied over her curls, with one or two locks venturing out to cling to her careworn cheek... And, of course, the ubiquitous homemade Karo tin lunch pail with the wax paper-wrapped sandwiches.
We met in Border's parking lot at 8, and she actually was wearing overalls, I think, but the rest of the agreed-upon vision was only imagined. She had a shopping bag lunch, and from the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter peeking out, I could see we belonged to the same school of lunch preparation.
It was cold, with flakes of snow blowing in a northeast wind. The russets were stomping and kicking up dust. Our task was to sort for rot, misshapen potatoes, rocks, clods... Oh, and to remove every potato that was larger than 10 ounces, which turned out to be nearly all of them.
My memory blurs. I don't even remember who pushed the green button on the conveyor that first time. But somehow, 500,000 potatoes came thundering off the rollers, choking us with dust. Our arms moved in fast motion, just like in that "I Love Lucy" episode that I have often used as an example of what my perfect job might be. But Lucy got to eat the chocolates. Those big, dirty russets didn't hold quite the same appeal.
It was probably pretty disappointing for Shawna that we didn't get to sing the banana boat song with substituted potato lyrics as she had imagined. She was too busy grabbing oversized spuds off those rollers to look up, or think. They went by so fast, it was like trying to empty a river with a tablespoon.
When, finally, the last potato rolled into the last truck, Shawna went into the break shed to fill out a W-4 form, so she would get paid for her day's work. The day probably equaled about an hour and a half of her professional wage as a technical writer. And it certainly won't be enough to cover the massage work it is going to take to erase the memory of the russet stampede.
Friday, March 23, 2007
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.
"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.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 4
DAY 3 — March 22, 2007
"Good clean seed"*
What are the chances that my underground blog would coincide with the Bozeman Daily Chronicle today? Is it just me (read as: a single, 43-year-old woman thrown into close contact with a bunch of burly Dutch farmers) or is the quote from today's story, "Montana has a reputation for good clean seed" really funny?
Another day of easy sorting. No wind, good spuds. Hardly any rocks on the conveyor today. Only four of the expected ten trucks showed up, so we got off at noon. Jim told us to write down an extra hour on our time sheets to make up for the trouble and gas that it took for us to come out for a half-day. Each day he has thanked us each personally for coming, and he frequently tells us we're doing a good job. Instead of paying money to go to PowerPoint obsessed leadership seminars, corporate middle managers should be required to spend a day sorting potatoes for Jim.
Yes, what Jim said about the girls bringing baked goods is absolutely true. I thought he meant the girls on the crew (and while dreading it, I mentally promised to do my part) but it's actually his daughter, wife and daughter-in-law who pony up with the treats. Today, Jodi brought brownies, still warm from the oven. Yesterday at coffee time, Matthew's wife, whose name I'll remember next time (maybe), brought freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Matthew met his wife at the Dutch-Reform college in Iowa. (I think it's in Iowa). She's from Winnipeg, where there is a sizeable cache of Dutch Christian farmers, like here in Montana. She and their two boys, whose ages I would peg around one and three years, come every day to bring Matthew a hot lunch served with a spicy dash of hen-pecking. He eats it out of re-used food tubs and drinks water out of an apple juice jar. That impresses me.
The boys are blonde, adorable and very sweetly behaved. I noticed that even though the toddler has vestiges of baby talk in his dialect, he whispers grace over his little bit of home-baked bread with all the solemnity of a true believer. The menfolk entertain themselves by feeding the kids Cheetoes and M&Ms to get a rise out of their nutrition-conscious mom. It raises the tension in the lunch shed just a notch beyond my comfort level, but I'm unusually sensitive.
Part of me is a little scared of these people, their faith and their traditions. If I could turn the head of that big fellow in the ill-fitting Wranglers, how would I like a life of cleaning, cooking, praying and child-rearing? (Mind you, it's all just conjecture.) I'm a bit awed by the sheer practicality of their family system, comforted by its predictability and fearful of its rigidity, all at once. I get the feeling it's kind of like the Spudnik, chugging those spuds out by the ton -- mighty powerful, but where do heart-shaped potatoes fit in? Maybe if I hang around long enough and ask the right questions, I'll find out.
We girls on the crew are all here for different reasons. On the first day, Maureen asked us each, over the conveyor belt, if we were married. No, I'm divorced, with a teenaged daughter. No, Angela just graduated from college in Wyoming and she rooms outside of Livingston with a friend who has two kids. No, Brandy is separated from her incarcerated husband, but is engaged to someone new. She has two or three kids, including a 3-month-old baby at home.
Brandy left early the first day and hasn't returned. My speculation is that after a morning of spud sorting, she might have calculated that the $10 per hour doesn't quite cover daycare. Likely, she doesn't have the luxury of figuring the value of baked goods and philosophical stimulation into the deal.
------------------------------------------------------
*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
"Good clean seed"*
What are the chances that my underground blog would coincide with the Bozeman Daily Chronicle today? Is it just me (read as: a single, 43-year-old woman thrown into close contact with a bunch of burly Dutch farmers) or is the quote from today's story, "Montana has a reputation for good clean seed" really funny?
Another day of easy sorting. No wind, good spuds. Hardly any rocks on the conveyor today. Only four of the expected ten trucks showed up, so we got off at noon. Jim told us to write down an extra hour on our time sheets to make up for the trouble and gas that it took for us to come out for a half-day. Each day he has thanked us each personally for coming, and he frequently tells us we're doing a good job. Instead of paying money to go to PowerPoint obsessed leadership seminars, corporate middle managers should be required to spend a day sorting potatoes for Jim.
Yes, what Jim said about the girls bringing baked goods is absolutely true. I thought he meant the girls on the crew (and while dreading it, I mentally promised to do my part) but it's actually his daughter, wife and daughter-in-law who pony up with the treats. Today, Jodi brought brownies, still warm from the oven. Yesterday at coffee time, Matthew's wife, whose name I'll remember next time (maybe), brought freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Matthew met his wife at the Dutch-Reform college in Iowa. (I think it's in Iowa). She's from Winnipeg, where there is a sizeable cache of Dutch Christian farmers, like here in Montana. She and their two boys, whose ages I would peg around one and three years, come every day to bring Matthew a hot lunch served with a spicy dash of hen-pecking. He eats it out of re-used food tubs and drinks water out of an apple juice jar. That impresses me.
The boys are blonde, adorable and very sweetly behaved. I noticed that even though the toddler has vestiges of baby talk in his dialect, he whispers grace over his little bit of home-baked bread with all the solemnity of a true believer. The menfolk entertain themselves by feeding the kids Cheetoes and M&Ms to get a rise out of their nutrition-conscious mom. It raises the tension in the lunch shed just a notch beyond my comfort level, but I'm unusually sensitive.
Part of me is a little scared of these people, their faith and their traditions. If I could turn the head of that big fellow in the ill-fitting Wranglers, how would I like a life of cleaning, cooking, praying and child-rearing? (Mind you, it's all just conjecture.) I'm a bit awed by the sheer practicality of their family system, comforted by its predictability and fearful of its rigidity, all at once. I get the feeling it's kind of like the Spudnik, chugging those spuds out by the ton -- mighty powerful, but where do heart-shaped potatoes fit in? Maybe if I hang around long enough and ask the right questions, I'll find out.
We girls on the crew are all here for different reasons. On the first day, Maureen asked us each, over the conveyor belt, if we were married. No, I'm divorced, with a teenaged daughter. No, Angela just graduated from college in Wyoming and she rooms outside of Livingston with a friend who has two kids. No, Brandy is separated from her incarcerated husband, but is engaged to someone new. She has two or three kids, including a 3-month-old baby at home.
Brandy left early the first day and hasn't returned. My speculation is that after a morning of spud sorting, she might have calculated that the $10 per hour doesn't quite cover daycare. Likely, she doesn't have the luxury of figuring the value of baked goods and philosophical stimulation into the deal.
------------------------------------------------------
*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 3
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."
------------------------------------------------------
*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
"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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