Planting Potatoes

The Second of Two Potato Patches

The potatoes are in the ground - 50 pounds of Kennebec seeds, which turned into almost 300 hills of potatoes.

We planted the first batch of potatoes on June 10, in the garden above the house. Dad tilled the patch on the 9th, breaking soil out of the grip of witchgrass and weeds. The tiller bounced and clanked mightily over some buried boulders that are part of the mountain, and Dad thought some of the tiller tines must have been damaged, but that was not the case - not until he tilled the other garden, and hit the anchored boulders over there. Such are the dangers of gardening in glacial till.

Lucy and Ber were here that weekend, and so there were many hands making light work of the laborious task. Well... it still wasn't light work... but it did go faster.

The Humphrey Hoe

The tools we needed were few: a long length of baling twine tied between two stakes, used for marking the rows; a 3-pound stone hammer, for driving in the stakes; the Humphrey hoe; the potato hook; a bucket for the compost and another for the seed potatoes.

Dad cut the seed, which Ber had brought. He sat on a pillow, on an upturned bucket in the barn, cutting the seed and spreading them out to dry on a sheet of plastic.

We stretched the line the length of the garden, and Lucy grabbed the Humphrey hoe and asked, "How far apart do the holes go?" "About a stride," I said. "Dig one, step in it, dig another as far apart as you step." "Gotcha." She scraped a shallow hole about a foot across, stepped in it, dug another, and went on down the row.

We usually use a 5-10-10 rock phosphate to fertilize the potatoes, tossing a small handful into each hole. Since we could not find any phosphate this year (well, we did, but did not want to take the time to drive to Chester), we used well-composted horse manure, the consistency of crumbly soil. After Lucy had dug a complete row, Ber came along behind with a bucket of the composted manure and tossed a double handful in each hole.

I started setting the seed - placing a piece cut-side-down in each hole, but Lucy, having dug a row and a half in a hurry, was flagging, and I offered to switch places with her. She then happily set the seed, singing to it as she did. "Grow, little potatoes, grow..."

A seed potato nestled in, ready to be covered

Once two rows were seeded, I started covering them - raking a couple of inches of soil over the top of each seed and giving each hill a little pat with the hoe. When that was done, we started digging more holes, first marking the rows, pounding the oak marking stakes in with the hammer. Some patches of the garden had not been tilled deep, and Ber broke up this harder soil with the potato hook before the holes were dug.

We had neared the end of our eighth row when we heard a tapping sound from up on the hill. We thought Dad might be making noise to drive off a squirrel or something, but the sound continued, and Ber went up to investigate. We heard her make some exclamation, and then laugh, and a moment later she appeared at the top of the garden and called for us to come help, as Dad had tipped over!

The bucket on which Dad had seated himself had been slowly hitching backward as he moved, and unbeknownst to him, was slowly collapsing as well. It eventually folded up under him, tipping him over backwards - not a fall, but a subsidence. Poor Dad laid there, reclined on the pillow, for about ten minutes before Ber went to check on him. He was quite comfortable, and said he almost fell asleep, lying there and looking out at the trees.

It took all three of us to get Dad onto his feet; we had to help him roll over and get to his knees, then haul him upright and brush the dirt off from him. he was unhurt, but put out at being unable to get up by himself. He decided he'd had enough for the day, and went inside. When he reached the house, he told Mom, "I got cast!" - referring to a horse that falls in such a way that it can't get up.

Lucy took the folded-up bucket and threw it into the dumpster (we have one here so we can clean out the cellar), and it went all to pieces, and she had to gather up the bits that scattered around.

So... we got 8 rows planted, averaging about 20 hills per row. Not bad for a couple hours' work. Ber and Lucy had to go back to their respective homes that day, so we had to stop, even though there were a lot of potatoes still to plant.

In subsequent days, Dad took the tractor over to the other garden and tilled and re-tilled the upper piece, a fairly flat piece of ground hedged in by scrubby woods. It was while tilling this piece that he ran over some boulders and bent some of the tines on his tiller. Yesterday, he hauled the equiplent over - hoes, buckets, potatoes, composted manure, and a bag with a couple of pounds of phosphate, which had turned up in the greenhouse. He went over while I wasn't looking and dug a row of holes and dropped in the phosphate, before having to return for a drink of water. While he was resting, I took off for the field and worked steadily. I got 4 rows planted, and the holes dug for the last 53 hills when Dad returned.

It was dusty work, but the air was sweet and mild. Though the sun shone from high in a midsummer sky, there was a cooling breeze, and I had a bottle of cold water in the shade. Birds sang all around - warblers, sparrows, thrushes, and, high up on the mountain, the startling screams of a flock of young ravens. I could smell the warm soil, and the green grass and leaves, and the sweet resinous scent of warm pines.

When Dad arrived, he cut some row markers while I scooped manure into the holes, then started setting the last 2 rows of seeds. He couldn't finish that task, as it was very hard on his back, so he gave me the bucket of seeds and took the hoe, and started covering the seeds.

Dad, the Potato Shaman, in his element

We planted a total of 112 hills. All they need is time, and some water; the soil was pretty dry, after this extended spell of sweet sunny weather. We expect some thundershowers later this week and perhaps some rain next week. That will be good.

The potatoes in the first patch are beginning to crack the ground, and with the hot weather due this week, some will be poking tiny, dark-green curled leaves into the air.

I remember when we got 15 bushels (from over 100lb of seed). I remember the year we had some potatoes that tipped the scales at over 2-1/2 pounds EACH. Not a lot, but some.  I don't anticipate either thing to happen this year. But we will get some potatoes -  a few bushels. They will come rolling out of the cold soil in October, when the air smells of frosted grass and fallen leaves, and the sunlight will come clear and brittle through the leafless trees.

When we dig them, and when we make meals of them throughout the winter, we will remember the bright sunny days when we planted them, and the memory will drive the cold and dark away.