Harvest memories and a fishing yarn
How many of you remember picking potatoes, but more so when there was a problem with the digger, or due to the trucks hauling them there spuds to Potato Service, you had no empty barrels? I remember those times.
When either of these things happened, my friends and I would pull the tops from the un-dug rows corresponding to our sections. By doing this we were able to avoid the shaking of the tops to get to the potatoes after they were turned out by the digger. It seemed like that was the only time I could stay caught up.
That technique worked great until the field boss figured the person on either side of you needed a bigger section. Then a lot of your extra work was for naught as those others enjoyed the fruits of your extra labors. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they had thanked you for it.
Ah, well, the lessons you learn as a youngster.
I saw several photos of a picking crew on Facebook the other day and as I looked at them I was transported back to those days so I could Remember When . . .
With Mickey, Paht 5
Well, yestidy we had a good haul and a good payday. So this mahnin’ when I stopped to get Mickey, I told him what we grossed and what we cleahed and that put a big grin on his face in spite of the wince when he sat on those two claw pinch bruises from yestidy. I asked about them bruises and he told me the were about the size of a baseball. Well, you know me, I couldn’t leave it theah, so I asked him if he meant the size of a whiffle ball, or a softball or a hahd ball like the Red Sox play with. I got a glare for my trouble.
We came to the dock and got in the dory and I rowed us out to the Jenny B. I figured that wouldn’t hurt me as much as it would Mickey’s bruised hind pahts. Mickey tied the trot line of the dory to ouah buoy and I climbed aboahd and stahted that sweet soundin’ Detroit Diesel. I held her on station until Mickey untied the moorin’ line and climbed aboahd.
I was busy navigatin’ the watahs of the bay when we crossed the bow wave of a tankah headed in to unload. I heard a crash and a yelp and turned just in time to see Mickey slippin’ and arms and legs windmillin’ in the spilled bait on deck.
About three seconds latah we hit the wake wave, and Mickey came off the deck about a foot and down he came. Nope, he ain’t a cat and didn’t land on his feet. Here I am hangin’ onto meself laughin’ until I cried as Mickey picked hisself up spittin’ and sputterin’.
Next time I will reveal “the rest of this chapter.”
Guy Woodworth, a Presque Isle native now living in Limestone, is a 1973 graduate of Presque Isle High School and a four-year Navy veteran. He and his wife Theresa have two grown sons and five grandchildren. He may be contacted at email@example.com.