R - Comhaltas Archive

Potato(In memory of the people who diedin the Great Famine in lreland)Professor Daniel Patrick Murphy, M.ed., C.A.G.S.magine a potato. It is goodand hard and smells of earth .~ There is roundness to this potato,circularity with wondrous indentations.Like a Euclidean formula with ravishingeyes. Hold it in your hands. Isn't itrefreshing to roll such coolness in yourpalms on this unusually hot and dryautumn day? The ache in your backrecedes and you take long strides awayfrom the potato patches. The tribalfeeling of wholeness tugs at theboundary of your awareness. You areholding an earthen fleshed miracle thatyou planted back in springtime.Today is not a rare day; it is anexceptional day. You have justharvested you first potato for thisseason and your four children arewaiting. Unusual joy is heard from thecabin and the white-streaked blue skycontains an array of blueprints for you.You enter the full cabin and your wife'slips contain a smile as alluring as achurn of fresh butter. She takes thepotato and places it in an earthen oven .Within minutes the skin, then the fleshof the potato splits open. She juggles thewonder in her hands and places it onthe thick wooden table. The childrenare wide-eyed from its aroma. A breadthof luscious, yellow butter melts at thepotato's centre and seeps into its skin. Adash of salt appears crystalline and clea ron the potato's pith. When you raise thepotato to your mouth, you begin tosa livate. Careful, it's hot. With onepleasurable bite you know the pail fullof potatoes you left at the garden will bewelcomed by the family.Imagine children vomiting grass. Nowimagine a ripe, nourishing potato. Bothof these things exist. You are in a fieldwith one of them . The mind does that,that's what it's for. It takes you to novel,unforeseen places. Get close to thechildren. See the four stages of hunger.Hear the retching sounds that areoverpowered by the stench ofblackening, rotting potatoes. Browngrass, sedge, and limp sta lks areeverywhere, and the seepage frompatches of rot covers the earth. Arough-hewn coffin with metal hinges isin silhouette on the horizon. The latestchild to die is not being carried away.One of your rivalling brothers comesroaming over a hill and the horse he'sriding is collapsing. Although they' renot clacking yet, the outline of thehorse's ribs is visible; the waiting winddoes not yet wail through the ribbedcage. You need to feed your brother,but the potato you've been saving fordays is softening, decaying. You feelstomach pains from the hunger. Youmay be hungry as your starving brother,but not quite as weak. The potato isbecoming foul and you want to go outand get help. How much more of thiscan you take? As you wander theoutside territory, the scavengers areflogging each other and the carrionstench stretches out like vultures' wings.There are so many people fightingfeverishly for too few potatoes.Share Your Potato?Should you share your potato withsome of the scavengers, or return andgive it to your brother? Perhaps itwould be wise if you ate it yourselfbefore you weaken and lose the chanceto live. This is a choice you have, butfor how long? How long does it take todecide? Can you decide?Imagine that you are confined in a cavelocated on the side of a barren hill.There are gua rds waiting for you tomake an escape. They already knowthat you're going to attempt to escape,and they know the method you'vedreamed up. Everyone in control knowsand everyone not in control knows.There are no sec rets. The only thingthat no one knows is the extent of theslaughter if you don't escape and tellsomeone. Tens of thousands, perhapsmillions, will be frozen, or burnt, orcaptured and will die. The torturers willcome tonight. They always come atnight begging for your life. You don'tthink about the night, however, butabout a freshly baked potato lavishedw ith butter and some tasty salt that isbeing offered you. How long does itlast? The potato is steaming andaromatic and it reminds you of a brookwhere sunlight sparkles on the surface.At a wide bend in the brook a swirlingpool forms into the shape of a bowl.On the rim of the bowl there are berriesand fruit trees. The reflection in the bowlholds cranberries, blueberries, apple andpear trees. When you were a child, youwould stand on a handcrafted raft andcast out from shore onto the centre ofthis bowl. The bowl, formed by thecurve in the brook, was your home.Often, when the sun reflected on thebrook at the precise angle, the bowlturned as golden as the wheat on a ripefield at sunset. It is not your brother'sweakness from hunger, nor the starvingchildren, nor your own hunger painsthat is ruining you, but the absence ofthe golden bowl formed by the bend inthe brook. If you could only hold thebowl in your hands, you could endureanything. At least that's what you tellyourself. The potato the guards offer youis c:Jivisive, and does not mean life.There were once two sisters. One was