Here we go again. Back to the farm. Reluctantly, I might add. It’s just that my experiences were like episodes from the Twilight Zone. The potato planting was the first in a long line of bizarre happenings, a few of which you may have read about in previous blogs.
A little background is necessary to set the scene and build up a modicum of suspense leading to the potato event.
The day moving to the farm was the day my daughter was born. Since I never really wanted to move to that farm, I opted to remain in hospital until my insurance ran out. Once there, it was worse than imagined. To give you an idea, I found myself in this 12 room farmhouse with no insulation; a big forced hot air furnace sitting in the middle of the 18 ft. living room which only heated the second floor; 7 dogs in the garage which the previous owners left making 8 with our own dog and the kitchen stove blew up the first weekend there. And so began my 7 years on the funny farm (no laughing matter, however ).
We had taken up residence the first week of May. The incident about which I am sharing occurred 7 weeks afterwards. Until that time my entire experience of gardening was buying produce at a farmers’ market. You can imagine the shock when the following directive was issued. I was to plant 8 rows of potatoes on a plot of land about the size of an NBA basket ball court. My reaction – what else but a total melt down.
Fortunately, shortly after moving in, I met a woman about my age who lived down the hill. We became fast friends which was a blessing. I phoned her in my frantic, freaked out state. She came right over. I cried and complained. She consoled and commiserated. Suddenly I recalled seeing a bottle of banana brandy in the cupboard. No idea how or when it got there. No one I knew would have purchased it. My friend and I concluded it had materialized for just such a situation. So we accepted the gift and promptly de-materialized it.
We soon discovered that banana brandy had mystical powers. I put the baby in her carriage. We gathered up the potato seed, some hoes and shovels. The three of us set out for the basketball court. My daughter slept peacefully while my friend and I dug and hoed over and over and over until all 8 rows were planted
When the green leaves of sprouted potatoes poked through the ground, what we thought were eight beautiful, straight rows, were not. Here is the piece de resistance: we had some visitors who were scholarly and erudite. They toured the property noting, in particular, the potato patch. They congratulated us on creating such a remarkable topographical map of the Himalayas. Go figure.
Comments are welcome.