Memories are such precious things. They allow us to live again with our family, listen to their voices, note their postures, their facial expressions, and wait, wait, there is something more, three little words, my mother’s words, “It’s supper time.” I want to hear them again, loud and clear. “It’s supper time”!
The following is a story from my grandfather. He has been sending memories of his days growing up on the family farm in Nebraska, and I want to share them with you.
SAME TIME NEXT YEAR
Be on good terms with nature and things will always work out fine. At least that is what I was always told. And so it was with potatoes. A Cunningham family potato historical vignette is what this is.
“Bill have you got your spuds planted yet?” This would have been a reasonable question raised in the spring, say at the Sexton Grocery Store and Post Office, in Nickerson. Nickerson, Nebraska to be clear. Bill, my father, could have responded with a polite, not yet and carried his groceries to the pick-up and journey home. Or he might have summarized where the Cunningham family was in fulfilling the annual, family ritual. It was just that: annual, family, and ritual. In the spring, Saturdays were preferred potato planting dates. Kids would be out of school, and so it was with us. Space was set aside in our vegetable garden for potatoes and if the area was large it was called a patch, a potato patch. “Seed” potatoes were acquired, probably from the Co-op, in Nickerson or Winslow or Hooper. For clarity, let it be known that the “potato industry” at our farm was in Dad’s hands, from planting in the spring through digging in the fall. Skippy, the family dog, small, black and white, with bright eyes was always on the scene, stretched out, paws folded, with an ‘I am in charge’ look about him. More will be said about Skippy elsewhere but be assured that Skippy was in good standing among all of us but especially with William, Bill or Willie, whichever name you liked best.
Here is how the planting day went. The seed potatoes before planting were stored in a deep cellar. On planting day they were brought up to the kitchen porch where they were washed, sprouted and sliced. Most every family member became involved in the overall ritual. Sprouts grew out of the eyes of the seed potatoes and had to be removed before slicing. Seed preparation at our house was done most often by my mother. She examined each potato, broke the sprouts off, washed it and then cut it into pieces, each piece having one eye. Before the actual planting was started, the surface of the ground was smoothed and sometimes dampened early in the morning. Rows were made with hoes, straight of course, and planting would begin. The pieces of the seed potatoes were placed in the rows, one by one, eight to ten inches apart. All of us planted. Using a hoe, Grandpa Charlie covered the seeded row with dirt. He followed by using a garden roller to compress the ground to avoid erosion in case of rain. It seldom rained in those years, the very dry years. In fact I do not recall even a sprinkle. It was hard work bending over all the time and fatigue seemed to arrive early. I know. Brother Russ, and to some extent, brother Rolland, and I planted several years in the late 1930s and early 1940s. We were on hand, too, to harvest the crop in the fall. There were rituals then as well.
Earlier it was noted that straight rows were important. Indeed they were, a matter of pride, that applied to field corn and soy beans as well as radishes, lettuce, onions and other vegetable garden items. My mother’s family members were sure to comment on our rows, should they drop by, which they always seemed to do. As a rule, they brought a pie or a cake or a batch of cookies. Danes did that kind of thing.
A further word about rows. Farmers in the period of my growing up sometimes “checked” their corn rather listing it creating beautiful patterns in the fields. Special rolls of smooth wire with evenly spaced wire knots were mounted on two row corn planters. The wire passed through drop mechanisms which dropped three or four kernels of seed corn each time the drop mechanism was tripped. Great care was taken to make sure that rows were started evenly to allow two way cultivation to occur. The by product was beauty. Farmers became artists. As the corn grew it was cultivated two ways. Checked corn fields were beautiful.
Think for a moment of a twenty acre field of corn on a hill side where you could see straight horizontal, vertical and diagonal lines of corn in the spring time. Farmers from our neighborhood who checked their corn were sure to get compliments after church, at the co-op, the grocery store or the tavern in Nickerson. We checked our field corn for a few years, until managing the wire became too slow and too burdensome to continue. By now the checked corn technologies have rusted away and linger only in the minds of a few who remember. Like me.
Memories are such precious things. They allow us to live again with our family, listen to their voices, note their postures, their facial expressions, and wait, wait, there is something more, three little words, my mother’s words, “It’s supper time.” I want to hear them again, loud and clear. “It’s supper time”! Bye for now.
Why not write your potato story, hear those voices and feel the warmth you have preserved, for you, and those who choose to read your glimpses from the past.
From My Grandfather, On His Birthday.
We are happy to announce that we will be offering Summer CSA shares starting in July. Official details will be available this week.
