This Fish Needs A Bicycle

once upon a potato farm

The farmhouse was ancient – Renee’s father, and his father before him, had been born in the room at the top of the stairs. All three floors were heated by a single fireplace and indirectly by the kitchen stove that always seemed to be cooking something -- latticed pies, enormous turkeys, mashed potatoes. The best potatoes I’ve ever had -- bright white under their skins, they tasted wholly unlike anything found in the produce section of my city supermarket.

At night, we slept under layer upon layer of homemade quilts, torturing our bed partners with a frozen big toe slipped under the hem of their flannel pajamas. The roof was steeped and our giggles bounced off the walls, our breath visible in the moonlit attic room. Renee’s mother would appear in the doorway, bundled in her terrycloth robe, tuck another quilt around my sister (who is always too cold) and say, “Don’t stay up too late, girls.” Then she’d sit on the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, laughing, and we knew what she really meant was, “Don’t stay up without me.”

In the morning, we city girls were tossed dusty farm coveralls and given lessons in snowmobile operation. Hours later, we returned to the house, faces red from the wind and reeking of exhaust fumes. We showered and dried our hair in front of the fire, Laura Ingalls style.

I made three trips to the potato cellar that afternoon. Renee’s mother would slice into one, decide its pallor or its smell wasn’t fitting for Christmas dinner and with a “Would you mind dear?” I’d be headed back down the dark, creaking stairs.

We spent the next two days in a stupor, napping in front of the fire, nibbling at a never-ending supply of leftovers. Turkey sandwiches on homemade bread. On one of those lazy afternoons, we took a drive over the mountain road to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We pressed our noses to the cold windows of the SUV, watching elk cut a path in a snow-covered field, rubbing the glass with our mittens to clear the fog. At the top of the ridge, where we took in miles of rocky, frozen landscape, Renee’s mother said that we were in God’s Country. I couldn’t help but think maybe she was right, and that thankfully, God also made cities, because it was awfully cold in his country.