potato sleeps

I had never noticed. I grew up growing potatoes. We would plant our garden late and harvest early in hopes that the frost would not settle on the starts or the crops near harvest. Only hardy crops: broccoli and beans, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, chard and kale. All these held our attention throughout the season, except the potatoes, those were for later. We generally ignored them, covering them with dirt periodically, tucking them back under.

As the summer days drew long, we would water and weed, harvest and munch on our hard work. The first frost would kiss the crops usually in late September, and the greens would wither and fade. Protected by the soil, the potatoes were the last to be plucked from the ground.

Potato time was simultaneously saddening and satisfying. It signaled the end of summer, the frost and snow soon to come. Yet it was the best kind of treasure hunt: a legitimate excuse to draw your fingers through the soil, to kneel down and spend the day in the dirt. And for what? Wheelbarrows full of spuds: big fat ones, skinny ones, lumpy ones, purple and brown and yellow ones, and isty-bitsy perfectly round ones.

But I missed something BIG. I never noticed them sleeping at night. I never had the chance to watch as they pointed their leaves towards the sky, drawing in their limbs, closing up shop after a long day's work storing away energy. But that's what they do. They stretch out in the morning as the sun hits them, spreading their limbs, flattening their leaves, soaking it up. And as the shadows grow long this evening, they're setting aside their work for another day.