by Jenna Shirley Scoresby

What used to be known as Spud Harvest back in “the day” is now labeled Harvest Vacation on the school district calendar. It’s not hard to see why. It seems like fewer kids work in the potato fields these days. When I was in junior high and high school twenty years ago it was protocol.

All my friends had jobs in the spuds. Even friends with after school jobs took a couple weeks off to make spud money. Even my friend’s parents, mine too, got jobs driving truck. It was good supplemental income. The conditions were horrible, the hours ridiculous, but the pay stub at the end was prime. A thousand dollars can go far at the Grand Teton Mall.

Spud harvest jobs are grimy. I had the grimiest one. I was a clod-spotter. It was my job to ride around on top of the combine and scan the conveyor belt for dirt clods. A potato looks a lot like a dirt clod, so it was tricky. I had seconds to deliberate and decide between spud and dud and remove the imposters from the barrage of real spuds speeding past. Dust flew, continually kicked up by the combine and the wind that Idaho is notorious for. The goggles I wore weren’t very effective at keeping dirt out of my complaining contact lenses.

Sometimes I got a break from the combine. I got to spot clods in the pit. Same job, a little less grimy. I could take off my goggles and sport raccoon-eyes. The dirt seeped into my skin everywhere and it took weeks to scrub my fingernails clean.

Described in this way it seems like it was awful, but I have the fondest memories of my Spud Harvest days. My friend Rebecca and I would make up songs about potatoes to ease the monotony. Riding on top of the combine on the bench offered amazing views of the Snake River. Of course the spud dust produced beautiful sunsets, and the moon was large and spectacular rising over the higher fields. Everyone was united in the goal: harvest the potatoes. Harvest them all. We work until we’re done.

It’s too bad that fewer and fewer kids experience Spud Harvest anymore. I’m sure the teenage children of potato farmers don’t get to opt out and probably wish more than anything that they could. But they are the lucky ones. They learn to work, to be exhausted but keep moving forward, to make friends with people they otherwise wouldn’t know, to be united, to accomplish something bigger than themselves.

So this week it’s Harvest Vacation and teenagers have Facebook and Wii’s and TV in HD. It’s a week off. It’s a break for them. They’re so gypped.