As Irish as potatoes

I was remembering my Grandpa Smith today as I planted bag after bag of seed potatoes in huge feed tubs, grow bags, and even the cardboard shipping container.

Grandpa grew row after row of potatoes on his suburban farm in Shakopee , Minnesota I remember at least on time we visited at harvest time. All of the kids plus a few adults, followed his tractor down long rows as the spade loosed the potatoes and brought them into the light. I gleefully gathered as many as possible in my sack! I feel certain the other amateurs like me felt the same way.

At the end of a very long afternoon on hands and knees we dragged our tow sacks to the side of the house between the garage and smokehouse.

There Grandma, my Mom, and Aunts had bushel baskets sitting in a row for sorting. They sorted all the potatoes we dug for preservation in the root cellar in the basement.

We were all filthy with dirt head to toe. I’m pretty sure we had baths before supper. I remember dreaming of more rows of potatoes before the welcome sleep for tired children.

I think of my Grandpa, and my Uncle Joe every time I am out in my little garden that takes up my entire backyard. It was the reason I wanted a house and my vision for it grows each year!

My Mother never saw the logic in it. Or perhaps she remembered following that tractor for many years as opposed to one afternoon!

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