Potatoes run deep in my roots. All my childhood and growing up years I cannot remember not having potato harvest in the fall. I can remember, at a pretty young age, dad teaching me how to run the little Ford tractor to scrape the dirt out of the cellar. I thought I was pretty hot stuff. Then I graduated to pulling boards in the back of the truck. My next promotion was going to the field, riding on the combine, pulling dirt and vines. There were usually several of us out there, so it was fun to have the company. Then I got the coveted job....driving truck. You were then out of the weather and out of the heavy, stifling dirt.
So this year I decided to make a little extra money by working in the harvest for a local farmer. It had been 20-something years since I did, but I was determined. When they told me they already had enough truck drivers and that they could really use me in the cellar, I thought, "OK, not my first choice, but OK." Three weeks later...we finished. My feet, hands, and back complained to me every day, but, all in all, it wasn't too bad. After the first day, Lataun said to me, "Mom, you can say it sucks if you want to." I thought, she doesn't remember that this thing runs through my veins.
Some of the potatoes are called chippers. If you've ever eaten a potato product made by Frito-Lay, or eaten french fries at an In 'N Out Burger, chances are they came from Bancroft, Idaho. One of my jobs was to stand by the machine called the "clod hopper" and save the few potatoes that would sometimes lose their way and fall on the wrong belt with the clods. It was part of their "No Spud Left Behind" program.
He loved everything about the outdoors, especially fishing. He passed that love along to Roy, and the two of them had many good times together on the stream, river, or lake.
