The Fork

The essence of human existence is our tools, a distinction more apparent on the farm. Some it is said choose this profession solely on the basis of the chance at these tools, some of which are tractors. It is ridiculous, but some believe tools emit a mating call, this the reason cowboys dwell in atmospheres of saddle leather, branding irons and somewhat comical hats. That wheat farmers are convened, by a convenient coven between the grain mill and combine. That dairymen too have their own identifying tools, silos come to mind and barns of a size to harbor a solar system. Some theorize it is the tools that bind us to our secret clubs of agriculture.

For the potatoer there is a like list of equippage that mark, brand and identify those sworn to the earth apple. It begins with a fork, short handled with blunted tines so not to spear the prize. In the long and dark ages of the potato, was the fork that ruled, by this tool was the crop lifted whether in Maine or Deutschland. By this fork and its professional zeal did potatoers gain the identifying curve of the spine to mark their trade.

In due time rebellion came, some say it was invention not rebellion, I think it was rebellion. The horse drawn chain link digger was probably the closest potatoers ever came to their own version of E=mc2. This what made a thousand industries possible, to feed the immigrants and raise the modern city on the banks of the former swamp. Wasn’t freedom, wasn’t women’s lib, wasn’t the democratic politics, wasn’t even running water…was the Einstein equivalent applied to agriculture, the chain link potato digger.

On the farm we have numerous antique potato forks, it is not our intent to ever use them but good as our vow, it happens. That last bit in the corner of the bin, that awkward spill, or those mornings late summer when I and my partners scramble aboard a pickup with the dogs, a couple burlap bags and a potato fork, one each.

The task here has a professional ring, sampling. Of potatoers are two kinds, those who do and those who don’t, sample. Each has its excuse. For the health of my heart I believe in sampling, regularly, often, routinely, perhaps to add incessantly. With that fork. Hardly is the crop planted than we are out there excavating; spacing, eyes, sprouts, doubles, position, decay. Non-samplers assert we will find out anyway, they are right. They assert it doesn’t change anything, they are right. As indicated, a lot of things people do get divided this way; with catsup or without, with a hat, without a hat, with a computer, without, with the lights on, without. I just like to know what’s coming before it hits, you get hit the same, just feels different.

Our growing season then is one long interlude with that fork. I have thought I might train a dog to this, even though the border collie has the right to vote in most states I am still working out the protocol of dog sampling, without a fork. For some reason always the need for more samples; set, sizing, stems, shape, more sizing. And still more; to time the MH, when to kill, a guess at yield, shape, pix, decay, sizing, skin set.

Sometime about here we hang our forks up on the wall, warm up the Lenco, harden the points and dive head-first into the crop with our happy ally, the continuous chain. At 6.4 billion hundredweight worldwide we are a little ways beyond the power of the potato fork, if civilization leans yet on its offspring.

At the American mantelpiece it is a common routine to hang our guns; our cherished flintlocks, Sharps, Winchesters and Colts. Someday perhaps we will get our tools in line with our theology and hang our potato forks on the mantle. I admit they leave some manly aura to be desired, a lack of curved walnut and blued steel. Perhaps an artisan of forks could cure this and create the mantelpiece worthy of the potatoers. Its tines tuned to hum at new moon and early frost, perhaps even at prices FOB.

I suspect it will be generations yet before we appreciate what this tool has done for humanity, without gospel or gunshot brought about the first peace, the one of the supper table.