If there is some tactile memory that is my teenage years in Shelley, Idaho, it is of the spud harvest. I can still taste the sweet-dirt grit that soaks through all your clothes and your skin and hair every day of the harvest and into your dreams at night. Pulling boards, driving truck, dropping lines, but mostly picking on the combines, day after day, until all the potatoes are safely away before the frost.
No comments:
Post a Comment