Hidden away in a cold cellar, with only light coming from two small lamps, is the potato farmer. He organizes spuds according to size, and arranges them as such in bins lining the walls.
These potatoes are from last year's crop, and soon will help produce this year's crop. They are tended to with care and admiration, and are sold with love.
The potato farmer has been doing this for years; he's made a living off of it, and all over town, people call him "The Potato Master." It was a joke at first, but it sort of stuck. No matter; the farmer found amusement in it.
The farmer leaves the cellar and steps outside; its snowing now, where it was only raining earlier in the day. The air feels cold, and the sun begins dipping behind the mountains surrounding the river. Stiffly, the farmer goes to his house beside the cellar, seeking a hot cup of coffee and a couple of muffins, only to do it all again tomorrow.
YOU ARE READING
365
Non-FictionI had this idea last night after a few drinks, a pounding headache, and an excessive amount of throat lozenges. In order to inspire me to write more often than I currently do, I am planning to write a new post every day and publish it, allowing me t...
