Beyond the Spuds

We all sat at the dinner table together but in total silence. There was just the clicks and scrapes of utensils on plates, and the occasional request to pass the salt and pepper. Since it was my last meal, Mama went all out on the vittles. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh-buttered corn on the cob, and country biscuits. She and I drank from tall glasses of iced tea, while Pa had a can a beer that he kept replacing about every five minutes.

My plate was piled high, but I was chewing and swallowing, not enjoying my meal. I kept biting into chicken flesh and scooping mashed potatoes down my throat. It was my last meal, and I should be savoring it, enjoying every morsel. But no, there was just silence and eating.

It just wasn’t fair! We should’ve been chattering away at each other, or at least, Pa and Mama should’ve been talking, with me listening. They should be giving me advice, tips, or opinions about my upcoming journey. When my brother Frank left to fight Hitler, we had the biggest celebration our family ever hosted. Half the town showed up and everyone brought a dish. There were games, laughter, and even Pastor Landon gave a good sermon about Bravery and Duty. Yet, Frank was brought back a year later in a pine box draped with Old Glory, so there’s that.

But I wasn’t going to war, just college. My graduation from high school was celebrated, but when I received my acceptance letter, Ma just went back to her choirs, and Pa just stomped out of the house.

That was a month ago, and they’ve been quiet ever since.

I finished my plate and excused myself from the table. Mom gave a small smile when I offered to clean up the dinner dishes. Dad just grunted and shook his empty beer can. I got a cold can from the fridge sat it in front of him, and took the empty can. I crushed it and tossed it in the trash. I was about to turn into the living room to catch the last part of Fibber McGee on the radio, but I went through the back door instead. I wanted to hear the sounds of the night instead of the silence of unspoken thoughts.

To my right were the barn, tool shed, and the outhouse. We haven’t had any plumbing put in, and Pa kept going on about how it wasn’t necessary. On my left was a vast field of potatoes. That’s what we were, spud farmers. It was the end of August, and harvest time was fast approaching, but this would be the first harvest without me picking the spuds with our two farmhands Pete and Bob.

Was that the reason why Pa was so upset about this? Did he expect me to stay on the farm my entire life? Then why did he insist I work hard in school? I wanted to march back inside, slam my fists on the table, and demand him to say what he wanted from me.

But I couldn’t do that. I just sat on the steps of the back porch and tried to look past the fields where I spent most of my life, picking spuds and hauling them to market. There was a whole unknown world out there, and I was going to walk into it on my own in the morning. A new day that should begin the first day of my own life. However, if that were true, why did it feel like the end?