Growing potatoes: a modest tribute to the past

I’ve often envied people with a long family history connected to the places they live, especially those who live on farms or ranches. They might see trees their grandparents planted or remember stories of great-grandparents who first worked the land. As a city-dweller, I’ve never had that experience, never occupied a house where my parents or grandparents had been brought up. Now, living part-time on Linda’s 50-acre spread named Little Horse, I find myself wondering who lived or travelled this land before Linda bought it in the 90s. For generations, the Ute Indian tribes claimed it for camping and hunting, and I’d like to examine that history in another post; but right now, I’m looking at the mid-20th century, when potato farmers lived in this area, in or near the towns of Lake George, Florissant and Divide.

I have no records of previous owners, but I see evidence of their work from my southwest-facing windows—the remnants of ponds and irrigation ditches for collecting spring run-off after snowmelt.

There were other such features in the area. A Wikipedia article on Lake George asserts that the town was once the center of an extensive potato-growing area. A Ute Pass Historical Society document says that Divide was the only town with any real agricultural base, which was virtually gone by the 1930s. Another source reports that farmers in the 30s and 40s, in an effort to survive drought years, built ditches and numerous small dams to channel water; the dams were seen as an ecological
problem decades later, and have since been removed. Today the San Luis Valley in Southern Colorado is the center of potato growing in Colorado and claims to be the #2 fresh potato shipper in the country.

It was a wetter climate during the last century, and we rarely see water here past early spring; this spring, an unusually wet one, we had a small waterfall when the snows began to melt and many rainy days ensued. The pond and ditches are marshy now—late July, with small pools that delight Linda’s dogs. Though we don’t use them for growing crops, we do grow potatoes, and this year’s wet, cool weather is just what this plant likes. In March Linda planted potatoes in a raised bed next to her greenhouse, as well as in my raised bed, covered with shade cloth. They were already growing vigorously by the time I opened my cabin in early June. It’s a small crop. This photo was taken in mid-July.

Of course, farming in hopes of feeding a family or earning income was a much more challenging proposition. The Ute Historical Society in Woodland Park has this planter*, a far cry from today’s modern, climate-controlled versions. Thoreau’s potato farming methods were even simpler; after hiring a neighbor to help clear and prepare the soil, he planted by hand and used a hoe to cultivate.

Though my relationship to the land here is recent, my connection to the potato is more fundamental. I would not exist if not for the Irish Potato Famine of 1845-46, which my Dad told us, was responsible for his paternal grandparents’ arrival in the US a few years later. Like so many other Irish, seeing widespread starvation in Ireland after the potato crop failed there, they came to the US seeking new lives. Railroad work, not farming, was their best option, and that’s what they did.

Growing up in Indiana a century later, my association with the potato was mainly through the delicious mashed potatoes my mother served often at dinner. (The potatoes were store-bought, as our small backyard garden featured only tomatoes and flowers). I never did develop a taste for the ubiquitous french fry—except during a childhood phase of craving McDonald’s perfect fries and thick, creamy milkshakes. That’s just as well, as this nutritious vegetable has become a starchy travesty on too many fast food menus, promoting monocultures on American farms, geared to the requirements of corporate buyers. Monoculture was the root of the problem in the Irish potato famine, historians remind us. A fungus attacked the crop, and there were no varieties that might have survived it.

Thoreau, who built his cabin near Walden Pond in 1845, just as the potato blight hit Ireland, had a number of Irish neighbors. At least one of them was skeptical of Thoreau’s decision to farm 11 acres—for food and as a means of earning “10 or 12 dollars by some honest and agreeable method” in order to meet his building expenses. The land, covered with pines and hickories, was considered by the skeptical neighbor to be “good for nothing but to raise cheeping squirrels on”.** Thoreau focused on beans, but also grew potatoes, corn, peas and turnips. Come harvest time, he had 18 bushels of potatoes and a rather modest income after expenses: $4.50. He was pleased with that, all things considered that year—plowing expenses and a late start.

Here at Little Horse, Linda and I are resisting monoculture in our small way. We have yukon golds, reds, and some fingerlings. Potatoes thrive when temperatures are between 45 and 75 degrees Fahrenheit, just what nature has provided this year, and Linda’s plants are already flowering. We continually hill straw and soil around them, and it seems that just a day or so later, they’ve popped through, seemingly as tall as before. This photo shows one day’s harvest late last summer.

We are already fantasizing about the harvest and possibly a small potato festival in honor of the crop and our unknown predecessors on this land. We’ll try new recipes and old favorites, and assuming I’m a successful shopper, a Mr. Potatohead game. Stay tuned.

*Thanks to Lee Willoughby for sending me this photo.

**Source is Walter Harding's annotated edition of Walden.

Thoreau's Cabin and My Cabin

Five years ago, with much anticipation and trepidation,  I left Tokyo, Japan, one of the largest metropolitan areas of the world. I decided to move to rural Park County, Colorado, where I had a small cabin. During those first months on the land, I decided to write a blog, chronicling my new hopefully more “authentic” life. Yes, I could hear Thoreau laughing—no doubt a chuckle rather than a belly laugh. He’s considered humorless by some scholars, but that’s only if you don’t appreciate the satire on almost every page of Walden.* And also if you don’t appreciate his somewhat whimsical approach to hairstyling.

The blog did not last beyond the first entry, except for a brief attempt to jump start it two years later. As I admitted even then, my early 21st century life seemed to bear little resemblance to the one lived by Thoreau in the mid-19th century. What was simplicity then is far, far simpler than today’s version.

The charming picture of Thoreau’s simple cabin was drawn by T’s sister, Sophia, an amateur artist. He was not happy with it. She didn’t quite get the cabin right and the pictured trees did not grow in the area, but she was his sister, so what could he do?

For a good view and discussion of Thoreau’s cabin, which visitors to Walden Pond can now see as a replica, go to youtube; click here to start the tour.

As for my early attempt at a blog, embarrassment was probably stronger than my tendency to inertia. A few comparisons and contrasts will show why:

1. Thoreau’s cabin—which he built himself from salvage—was 10’ wide by 15’ long, shingled and plastered. It had “a garret and a closet, a large window on each side, two trap-doors, one door at the end, and a brick fireplace opposite.” No mention is made in Walden of an outhouse; presumably he had one, though. His bathtub was Walden Pond—at least in the warmer months. Total cost of the cabin was $28.

My cabin, nicknamed Mudbiscuit, is a 34-foot park model RV consisting of two rooms and a bathroom, as well as a now-enclosed front porch. The living room/kitchen is 12’ wide x 15’ long—about the size of Thoreau’s entire cabin. It has built-in cabinets, counters, a double sink, and shelves (cellars having gone out of fashion), three windows and sliding glass doors. There are wood shingles on the outside and paneling inside; a high ceiling, peaking at 9 feet; all requisite wiring and plumbing, ceiling lights. Fixtures, such as fridge and stove, were added later. There is a small bedroom with large closet and a bathroom with sink, cabinet, shower and tub.  Cost was $31,281, and I believe a similar model would cost nearly double that today. Here’s how the southwest side of the cabin looked in 2007.

2. Thoreau’s furniture—which he made himself or found in the attics of others—consisted of a bed, a table, a desk and 3 chairs. A neighbor offered him a mat, which he declined, reasoning that he could just wipe his feet on the ground outside the door.  Apparently he anticipated by more than a century the late Erma Bombeck, who advised mid-20th century homemakers to avoid putting something that needs to be cleaned on top of something else that has to be cleaned.

Similarly, my living room/kitchen has a sofa bed, a table/desk, 2 chairs (plus several folding ones hidden away), and a stool. There the similarity stops. Add to that one bookcase, a shelving unit for Internet modem and router, telescope, and fan. Ignoring Ms. Bombeck’s advice, I bought 3 braided rugs. In the space facing the bathroom, a storage unit for food and clothes, and a set of plastic drawers; in the bedroom, a twin bed, a large shelving unit, 2 night tables, 2 lamps. A friend of Linda’s bought me a propane refrigerator.

This view of the interior dates back to 2010, my official move-in year,  when I was still sleeping on a borrowed bed and had not yet added many of the items in the above list.

3. Thoreau reminds his readers that he paid nothing for curtains, “for I have no gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing that they should look in.” If the sun is “sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to retreat behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a single item to the details of housekeeping”.

I’m with Thoreau here on reducing housekeeping tasks and on the pleasures of letting the sun and moon gaze in—sometimes, that is. On summer mornings, I love waking up to the sun, which I can see rising from my bedroom window. The southwest-facing windows of the main room offer a beautiful view of sunsets and the nighttime sky, moon or not, providing clouds don’t mask the starlight.

However, with the high altitude sun (8700’) in the summer and my sliding doors facing southwest, thermal shades proved one of my best investments. (When I was here in colder months, they certainly helped insulate as well.) Seeking out “some curtain that nature has provided” would require a short hike to the property across the road, where there are many evergreen trees. Mudbiscuit is surrounded by open pasture land, although there’s a small cottonwood grove visible from my east window—shade for a number of birds and other small creatures. Here’s a view of Mudbiscuit as the southwest side looks today after a deck was added, solar panels doubled and thermal shades pulled.

Despite these differences—which highlight the consumerism and necessary comforts of the 21st century, I’m no longer embarrassed to write about the connections between Thoreau and me. It’s interesting to explore Thoreau’s writings and set my choices in juxtaposition to those of this most American of philosophers. Thoreau’s stay at Walden lasted 2 years and 2 months; mine has totaled just about the same amount of time over a 5-year period. He wrote an amazing book about his stay; the least I can do is jumpstart this humble blog.

*Walter Harding, editor of an annotated 1995 version of Walden, makes a case for this.

Thoreau and Me

In 1845 Henry David Thoreau, a 28-year-old Harvard graduate seeking to “live deliberately”, began living in a small cabin on the shores of Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts. His 26-month experiment later resulted in Walden, a collection of essays written during and after his stay there. Never out of print during the last 160 years, it’s a classic in American literature: part memoir, nature diary, spiritual quest, and manual for living a good life.

I don’t remember when I first read Walden; it seems like I’ve known it forever, embedded as it is in so many aspects of American culture. I thought of it again in 2009, as I neared retirement after 20 years of teaching in Japan. While browsing in a Tokyo bookshop, I found a beautiful hardcover, annotated copy of Walden*. Like Thoreau, I felt I was starting an experiment as I left Tokyo, one of the largest cities in the world. My initial plan was to move to rural Colorado to a small off-grid cabin that I had bought 7 years earlier.

Thoreau’s cabin was only a couple of miles from his family home in Concord. Mine was thousands of miles away from Japan, but I already knew this part of the country, starting in the 90s, when my long-time friend Linda bought 50 acres of land between the small towns of Guffey and Florissant, about 50 miles west of Colorado Springs.  She soon bought a log cabin to live in and made the place her home. She named her homestead Little Horse.

I would visit during my summer vacations from teaching. One summer (2002), feeling I had no real home anymore, apart from my rented apartment in Tokyo, I asked Linda if she would mind my putting an RV on her land. She readily agreed, and we drove to Fairplay, the Park County seat, where we ordered a Cavco park model RV. Made of well-insulated wood and equipped with all necessary wiring, ducts and pipes, it arrived the following August. I was delighted to have the first home I had ever owned.

Like Thoreau, I did not own the land. Thoreau built his cabin on land owned by his mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson. He was granted use of the land in return for helping clean up brush and deadwood. Unlike me, Thoreau was an accomplished builder, able to make a solid structure, mostly from salvage, and erecting it with a little help from his friends. For me, there was no question of building one myself due. Lacking any real building skills, I was still working most of the year in Japan.

August, 2003: I named my cabin Mudbiscuit—can’t remember who thought of it first. This unusual moniker is a hybrid of Seabiscuit (a popular movie that first year about an unlikely winning horse) and mud—for the mud that ensnared the delivery truck after an intense afternoon rain, forcing the driver to camp on the land until morning. In the morning, he carefully positioned it, one long side facing southwest for light and heat, about 100 yards from Linda’s cabin. Mudbiscuit's arrival, coming down the Little Horse driveway:

During the following years, I had more than a little help from friends and skilled workers. Key people—both friends and skilled mountain builders—were Linda’s sister, Barbara Lane and her husband Reed Arnold. Much of the work they did themselves or contracted out to someone else who would do a job cheaply and well. Each subsequent summer, I made short, 7–10 day visits, and decided on an addition that would be ordered and done during the year: skirting, solar panels and batteries, a septic system, propane heaters (as the existing ductwork, designed for electric connections in trailer parks, seemed noisy and unsuitable for my situation), a deck adjoining the sliding doors, and a cistern. At first, there was little furniture: a table and chairs, a lamp and a borrowed bed; next came a fridge and stove. One year I invested in thermal shades and braided rugs.

While Linda was the only other human on Little Horse, I enjoyed having guests. In this photo, Linda (left) joined me and my good friend Bobbe for a breakfast smoothie one morning. I believe I had 3 chairs, like Thoreau, who said one was for solitude, two for visiting, and three for society.

I had non-human neighbors as well. Jill and Jim Durham, who live across the road, brought 6 elderly llamas over to graze for the summer. Mostly they stayed a distance away from the cabin, but sometimes let me get close, which pleased me a lot. I loved watching them watch me.

My initial plan was to live simply and economically for half of the year, (summer) while traveling and continuing to teach abroad as a volunteer during the colder seasons. Even before I returned, however, I had abandoned that plan, realizing that it was time for me to re-acculturate to the US and begin a new life post-retirement. Between the summer of 2010, when I officially changed my address, to the present day, I have spent summers and early fall here, leaving for winter travel or sojourns in Denver.**

By the time I was ready to officially move back to the US in the summer of 2010, Mudbiscuit was quite livable, though improvements have continued over the past 5 years: An enclosed front porch, a small front deck and stairway, a continually revised water system, and most recently, an upgraded solar system (2 new panels and new batteries). Indoors, there are more appliances and furniture. Linda and I have also shared an Internet account for the past several years as well.

Thoreau would no doubt laugh at what would certainly seem like pretensions to a simple life. More on that in the next installment.

*Houghton Mifflin (1995), Ed. by Walter Harding
**As of fall, 2014, I now live most of the year in a studio apartment in Denver’s Capitol Hill. I now own one tiny house and rent another.