Lean on Me by Jack Weyland

Author:Jack Weyland [Weyland, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Teens
Publisher: Deseret Book Company
Published: 1996-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

9

In October, four days before spud harvest was supposed to begin, there were three nights where the temperature got down to the mid-teens. Farmers feared frost damage to their potatoes, but after inspecting their fields, they decided that with the potatoes still buried several inches in the ground, most of the crop had been spared serious damage.

But then it rained, which postponed spud harvest another three days until the ground dried enough for farmers to get their equipment in the fields.

Every day was critical. How long would we have before the weather turned really bad? Would we be able to get all of the crop out of the fields? Nobody knew.

But then, finally, the weather improved enough for us to get started. After a couple of fourteen-hour days, I once again remembered why I didn’t want to be a farmer. The work was hard, monotonous, and never ending. I had the best job, though—driving truck from the fields to my dad’s potato cellar. There, a crew sorted the potatoes, tossed out the bad ones, and loaded the others onto a conveyor belt that gently dropped the spuds onto a steadily growing pile.

Everyone managed to finish up before the weather turned bad. But as time went on, it became obvious that the three nights of frost had caused some damage. My dad thought it was a manageable problem because he could control the humidity in the potato cellar. If he blew dry air over the potatoes, it would take the moisture away. But then it rained five days in a row. Because of the high humidity of the air, it was a losing battle to try to dry out the potatoes.

My dad didn’t say much at first because he thought he could control the situation, but things quickly went from bad to worse. Water began seeping through the pile of potatoes.

I’ll never forget Thanksgiving Day. I slept in late and awoke to the smell of pumpkin pie baking in the oven. I got up, went into the kitchen, grabbed a banana and a box of cereal, and turned on the TV to watch a football game.

A little after one-thirty, my mom said, “I’m worried about your dad. He left this morning to check on things at the potato cellar, and he hasn’t come back yet. Could you go see how he’s doing?”

“He’s all right,” I said.

“Greg, please go check on him. I’m worried.”

I drove to the potato cellar, five miles from home. It was raining again and threatening to turn to snow. My dad’s pickup was there all right. I could hear an engine running. I walked to where I could see what was going on. There was water, three inches deep on the cellar floor. Inside, my dad was driving a front-end loader into the pile, backing up past me, and dumping the rotting potatoes onto a nearby field.

I made my way inside the potato cellar. There was an ammonia stench in the air. I picked up a potato. It was soft and mushy.

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