Pondering Potatoes

Potatoes were regulars in our family meals. They showed up baked, mashed, pan-fried, boiled, riced in home-made beef hash, and for a brief period, as “instant” potatoes consisting of dehydrated spuds miraculously reconstituted with the assistance of water or chicken broth. I still gag when I think of them, though for some inexplicable reason my younger sister was quite fond of them.

Perhaps the unwavering presence of potatoes at our dinner table was due to cultural heritage. My mom’s grandfather emigrated from Ireland where potatoes had been a daily staple. My father’s parents both moved to Wisconsin from Switzerland. They had grown up near the German border and cooked traditional German food. Guess what? Potatoes were a staple there as well.

Though inherited tastes and habits may have been a part of our over-familiarity with potatoes, it was also very likely to have been a matter of practicality. My parents could feed themselves and five children economically by adding potatoes to nearly every meal.

Growing up in Wisconsin, potatoes were plentiful. Antigo, the town where both my parents grew up, was known for its potato production. When our high school football team played against Antigo, a small town about 35 miles from us, you were sure to hear a little chorus of, “I’m glad I’m not an Antigo potato…” sung to the tune of the Oscar Meyer Weiner jingle.

My dad passed away several years ago, but I can still see the way he would take his potatoes, flatten them into a thin circle on his plate, then drag his fork across to make tiny furrows before topping them with butter, salt and pepper. I always wondered why he did that, and now it’s too late to ask. So, I tell my kids about it and someday, if I’m blessed with grandchildren, I’ll tell them too.

Tuba Ted Documentary Film Trailer 2019

a secret

“Larry. Larry!”

Ma was peeved.

“Where’s your brother?”

I shrugged.

She went stomping off to the backyard.

I knelt on the floor.

“You can come out now,” I whispered.

The dust ruffle on my bed trembled as Larry slid out, still wearing Ma’s lipstick, earrings and slip.

Strange Dream

Rory slept, fitful beneath the crescent moon and winking stars shining through his window. He dreamed a cockroach slogged through his oatmeal before riding this spoon toward his mouth. He woke gasping, sure he heard small feet scrabbling across his birchwood floor. What was it?

Flashlight in hand, Rory got down on his knees and looked under his bed. Nothing there. As he rose the light washed the wall beneath the window and there he spied a small silhouetted figure clamoring onto the sill before jumping out.

Quick as a flash Rory was outside, his flashlight swinging wildly across the lawn in search of movement. There it was. A tiny figure heading to the coy pond at the edge of his yard where the forest began.

The leaves on the trees rustled a greeting as he neared. He ignored them and focused on the small body skimming across the water on the back of a fish. Rory’s flashlight illuminated the sprite as he reached the other side of the pond and stepped into the fairy garden his ex-wife had left behind. The tiny being turned, winked at Rory and disappeared beneath the nearest toadstool.

Rory woke, again. His feet were cold and the moon had shifted, but all was quiet except for the distant rustle of the trees.

He closed his eyes, resigned to counting sheep. And maybe a shepherdess with a cane too, just for good measure.

complicit

My husband drives and I spend the time gazing through the window. The beauty of long shadows on this late summer evening makes me weak. That, and heading out of town away from work and electronic tethers. 

The road curves and the view from a bridge affords a view not of the expected winding stream or placid lake with grassy shores but of a sea of green and golden corn, tassels rippling in a light breeze. The field rises and dips, shimmering as it recedes into the distance. 

It seems an act of magic, possible only by nature and imagination, a complicity of factors to make even the dying of a season a thing of beauty.

summer

cricket song sounds outside

my window

carried on air thick with

water gathered from

distant seas

while stars faintly glimmer

no more than ghosts of light

in the night sky

the trees are still

the city sleeps

Rising

Aquarius commands the beast to rise

and so bidden, it is born.

Element of water

elevates to air

forming shape and substance

shimmering in moonlight

rising to its god.