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I
grew up on a farm during the 1940s. The farm was located south of Saltillo
in the region of loamy soil just south of the crescent of prairie land that extends
over the eastern part of Texas. Early
one morning the June I turned ten, as he had done the previous three or four years,
Daddy said to me, “Go tell Dick Andrews we’re diggin’ potatoes.” Daddy always
shared potatoes with Dick, who had grown old alone. I ran to Dick’s house, a little
shack near the creek, to remind him the day had come.
Daddy guided the
brown mule with white stocking patterns on her legs down the rows of potato plants.
Some of the plants were covered with webs and straws. He controlled the handles
of the plow with the skill a cellist uses for his instrument as the blade of the
plow turned up the chocolate-colored earth. The blade became as shiny as a new
dime. After Daddy finished plowing, I touched the blade with my forefinger. It
felt smoother than a new dime.
Amazingly supple for one almost eighty,
Dick dropped to his knees and began to collect the new potatoes. Besides the ones
in sight, he knew there were others underneath the fresh mounds. He thrust his
gnarled hand into one of the mounds and groped for the other potatoes, disregarding
the black ants that crawled over his wrist.
Dick stood up to show us one
part of a reddish-brown potato that the blade of the plow had sliced. He shook
his head sadly because he knew the potato would soon decay. He must have thought
to himself a spade could have spared the damage that the blade of the plow caused.
But he also knew that plowing furrows in the patch was Daddy’s way of digging
potatoes. And he knew it was Daddy’s potato patch.
April
18, 2011 Column
© Robert
G. Cowser
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