Seed Potatoes - A Memoir

College student or not, whenever I went home for the summer to my 220-acre family farm, I could not escape the endless cycle of farm chores. Today's chore was cutting up seed potatoes, a task my dad called, "character building." 

Each potato had to be cut into multiple pieces wherever there was a shoot sticking out. These smaller pieces would be planted in our garden for the fall potato crops.

The earthy aroma of these seed potatoes filled the living room as hundreds of them lay scattered across the floor. My dad and two brothers had hauled bushel after bushel of these potatoes into the house and dumped them in the middle of our living room floor, creating a veritable Mount Potato.  

With knives in hand, we dutifully went to work cutting each one into smaller pieces wherever a shoot or beady eye poked through. About 1/4 way through the phone rang.

“It’s for you, Cindy,” my mom says.

I pick up the phone, wondering who it could be. I was home from college for the summer and no where near any of my new friends. “Hello?"

“Hi Cindy, it’s Bill.” 

“Oh, hi Bill." My heart skips a beat, while thoughts of "What is he doing calling me? He lives in Newark, two hours away. How did he get my number?" are running through my head.

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“Oh, just some stuff around the house,” I say, suddenly self-conscious of my unglamorous reality and not wanting him to know what I’m actually doing. 

To understand my utter discombobulation, you need to know a bit about Bill. His family is the pillar of his community. His grandfather was a doctor and has a school named after him. His father is retired, but was a Naval Academy grad, an admiral in the navy with his own ship, an aide to President Roosevelt, and the head of Civil Defense. His mom was a grad of University of Hawaii and had been a reporter for the Washington Post. They actually met at the White House, no less!

In contrast, my family were farmers. My dad had an 8^th grade education, my mom was an LPN, and I went to college on a scholarship. There was definitely a cultural divide between us.

“I’m here in Lewes,” he continues. “Can I come see you?”

Thoughts are racing through my mind. "I'm sure not ready for this. We haven't been dating that long! He’ll see us at our worst. We’re dirty from farm work. We live in a house built from a WW2 POW camp. And, we currently have Mount Potato as a centerpiece in the middle of our living room."

I decide to let him come. After all, he’s going to find out who I am sooner or later, and I really do want to see him. 

“Sure,” I say, “Come on over.” I mentally prepare myself that this could be his first and last visit. 

Less than fifteen minutes later he arrives. I don't remember his reaction; but knowing Bill, he took it all in and never showed any surprise or emotion. That's just the way he is. This, however, I do remember: he came, he saw, and yet he still married me. 

Although he now has Alzheimer's, I'd like to think that some part of him still remembers that day, fifty-five years ago, when he showed up amid the seed potatoes and swept me off my feet. As the Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell song says, "Ain't no mountain high enough. . ." to keep me from getting to you, babe. Even Mount Potato!