Thursday, February 2, 2012

I am Jake

NOTE: here is an intro i wrote for a new blog i got invited to write for.

Hear me roar.

So someone pulled a really good trick on me. They said we had this blog we were going to post on, and set up a schedule and everything. Each day i got up to see what posts we had, each day I found nothing. But i've got a post for ya'll. First an intro.

I come from the Land of Spuds. My first memory is of my dear sweet mother giving me a raw potato to chew on instead of a Binky. I'm sure she washed it first. I would describe my early years as starchy.

As soon as i could walk, I joined my ten brothers and eight sisters in the potato orchard. Being small, and easy to throw, they would heft me high into the top of the potato tree. Dispite my protestations, i was left there until i had made the tree "nekkid as your bum on bath night."

Father was a proud man, proud of his prize spuds. After careful cleaning and applying our secret Packer Potato Polisher to each spud by hand, he alone would take the job of wrapping them in the crocheted spud blankets dear mother spend her life making. She must have crocheted tens of thousands in her life time working late into the night, neglecting her own needs so that each potato knew it was loved. But that was our way, that was the way of the spud.

I remember the first time Dad allowed me to attend the potato auction. Each potato rancher would bring his harvest. The Archibalds, our long time spud rivals, would sneak through the crowd, claiming we were actually selling potato bugs. Day Dad had had enough. I don't know if it was because his youngest son was there or because he loved his potatoes so much, but challenged Steve Archibald to a duel.

You might think our little spud hamlet a little backward for allowing duels, but when you insult a man's spuds you insult him. He reached for the baker he always kept at his side. Steve grabbed a russet that looked like George Washington. The Potato rachers, spud hands, and high society, who had come from the big city for the auction, all formed a circle. Dad bit off a chunk of spud and spit at Steve's feet. Steve snarled. I struggled to see but was crowded out by large crowd. In the end the constable ended things before anyone died, but plenty of pride was injured, thus began our life long feud with the Archibalds.

I finally escaped potato land when i went off to college. I found a girl, and kept my starchiness to myself. Somedays when I'm stuck in I-15 in traffic, I yearn for a simplier place, a place where the russest grow on trees, where the women and men are equal in the potato grove, and where every meal has potatos served four different ways.

Some days I yearn for Idaho.