Russets

You say potato. I say potahto. Oh well, you get the idea. I didn't 'call the whole thing off'. The garden is, finally, in, and I'm now ready to go to battle with the woodchucks that inhabit the backyard. When the potatoes go in each year, I always think back to the garden on Washington Avenue and my Dad and the rodents. Down under the barn, there was a room off to the side. He called it the cold storage room, and it would keep Mom's canned veggies cold but not frozen. It was also the place where Dad stored his russets in wooden baskets, after they had been harvested. "They're the best; the only ones worth planting." He'd say to me. When we'd head down to get canned string beans or potatoes during the winter, he'd carry a big stick. You ask why? When you opened the heavy wooden door and turned on the light, you'd see why. Many big rats would squealingly(did I just create a new adverb?) scatter into the stone walls. The traps, he'd set the day before, would be loaded and upside down on the concrete floor. What a memory! Some images are with you forever. You just can't shake them. This one haunts me each planting season.