A Barrel of Memories

Every time I walk past the  potato barrel, a memory flits across my mind making me smile. I wasn't smiling on the day the memory was made. 

Newly married and barely 18 years old, I felt a need to prove myself, a city girl in a farm family. On the particular day in memory, I set out with my sister-in-law to work in the potato house, bagging potatoes. I jumped at the chance to drive when Judy offered. Inexperience and a sharp corner became the scene for my first embarrassing moment that morning. I plowed her green car into a local's yard instead of making the corner. No harm done, except to my ego, we managed to get to work on time.

Everything went fairly well until my father-in-law asked me to roll the barrel of potatoes off to the side. Judy worked as well as any man so he took it for granted I could too. Barely 5 feet tall and 105 pounds, I fastened my gloved hands on the rim and attempted to roll it away. You guessed it. A barrel full of potato seconds ended up on the floor.

How humiliating! For years to come, I winced every time I thought of it.

Only now, decades later am I able to laugh at my disastrous introduction to farming. Now I recall my father-in-law's precious smile and gentle ways whenever I look at the barrel.