Meltdown at the Idaho Potato Museum

Meltdown at the Idaho Potato Museum

“No problem is so big or complicated that it can’t be run away from.”- Linus

“Martin, how’s the search for a new tour guide going?”

“Great, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“How many applications have you received?”

“One.”

“What? Just one?”

“Yes, sir, but the guy looks like a real winner. Here, check out his resumé.”

**Application for Employment at the Idaho Potato Museum**

Name: Bert “Potato Head” Barnes.

Education: Graduate of North Dakota State’s Half-Day Potato School Program (18^th in my class).

Work Experience: Helped my grandpa on his potato farm.

                                 Two summers packaging Jay’s Potato Chips.

Favorite Game: Hot Potato.

Favorite Hobbies: Making funny stuff with Mr. Potato Head.

                                Firing my homemade Potato Cannon.

Favorite Meal: Mashed potatoes and potato soup.

Favorite Snack: Potato chips.  

Favorite dessert: Potato Cream Pie.

“What are you waiting for, Martin? Hire the guy!”

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“Welcome aboard, Bert. Here’s your Training Manual.”

“Holy crap, Martin, this thing is bigger than a phone book.”

“You must learn everything there is to know about the potato- its history, the many contributions the potato has made to society, its beauty and grandeur, and, of course, its many health benefits. Our tourists will have lots of questions, and they will be looking to you for the answers. You will need to become the ‘Potato Whisperer.’ Any questions, Bert?"

"How long do I get for lunch?"

"It’s in your manual… page 127, I believe. Let’s take our tour. You’ll want to take some notes.”

The Idaho Potato Museum is the Sistine Chapel of the world of agriculture. Farmers from around the globe will make the pilgrimage to Blackfoot, Idaho to pay homage to this mainstay of the world’s diet. Others come simply to learn and to partake in all the fun activities offered by the Museum, especially for the children- Hot Potato, Potato Carving, Potato Tossing (for accuracy and distance), the hilarious Mashed Potato Pie Eating Contest, Dunking for Potatoes, Potato Sack Races, and the ever-popular Where’s the Potato?

One feels the magnitude of the experience immediately upon entering the museum. No expense has been spared in the stunning displays of equipment, portraits of famous potato farmers of the past, and the interactive potato stations for grownups where patrons test their skills at Dangerously Hot Potato, Mr. Potato Head for Adults, and firing Potato Cannons at each other. The Potato Food Court is a must.

“Bert, this wing traces the history of this magnificent tuber. Potatoes began their journey thousands of years ago in the coastal regions of present-day Peru, spread throughout a hungry world, and today they cover the massive fields of Idaho.”

Martin shot a quick glance at Bert’s blank notepad.

“You might want to write that down.”

“Yes, sir, I was just… so caught up in what you were saying.”

“In many ways, Bert, today’s world was built on the potato. When Hannibal crossed the Alps, he needed elephants because of all those weighty sacks of potatoes. Lieutenant Travis was able to hold out for so long at the Alamo because they found an extra bag of potatoes in the potato cellar. And in their books, Neil Armstrong, Annie Oakley, Babe Ruth, Mohammed Ali, and Taylor Swift all note that they were raised almost entirely on a diet of potatoes.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not many people do. That’s one of the missions of our museum- to educate the population on the many contributions the potato has made to civilization.”

“What’s that darkened room? It looks like the place they keep the animals of the night, like vampire bats, at the zoo.”

Martin grew somber, shook his head, and spoke through gritted teeth.

“That, my friend, is the Hall of Shame, reserved for disgusting potato knock-offs like potato flakes and Pringles. It’s so disturbing. I wish they’d shut it down, but I guess the public has a right to know the bad right along with the good.”

Martin escorted Bert to the Potato Farmers’ Hall of Fame, an impressive array of portraits and busts of the pioneers of the industry- Theodore “Dig ‘em Deep” Hinkle, Tommy “Spuds” Barker, Normie “No-Shit” Nelson, Big Mamma “Mashed Potatoes” Martin, and many more historic figures that comprise the lore of the potato.  

“Who’s that guy?”

Martin was pointing to the lone full-size statue in the room.

“That is Isaac Woolverton.”

Bert wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a slight bowing of Martin’s head at the utterance of the name.

“So why does he get a statue?”

“Isaac Woolverton- the inventor of the industry-altering foot-operated potato planter. That changed everything. It set the potato on course to assume its rightful place as the world’s best source of life-sustaining nourishment.”

“One ‘O’ or two in Woolverton?”

“Two. It was 1885. Isaac was living in Oxford Township in Ohio with his sturdy wife Hannah. One night he said to her, “Jesus Christ, Hannah! There has to be a better way to plant these freaking potatoes!” And they went to work on it.

It was a blessing that Hannah had a background in dance. Her appreciation of creative footwork allowed her to think outside the box.

“Instead of bending over all the time to plant the damn things, why not attach something you can put your foot on.?”

Late nights, design after design, trial and error, it all paid off with the Woolverton Foot-Powered Potato Planter. The rest is history.

Martin flashed a broad smile.

“And I have a special surprise for you in the next room, Bert.”

“What’s that?”

A giggle from Martin.

“Brace yourself, Bert. You might wet yourself.”

“Come on, Martin, what is it?”

“You won’t believe this, but the Boss got it. He paid big money for it, but he got it.”

“Got what?!”

“The original Woolverton Foot Powered Potato Planter!”

“The original? You mean the…”

“Yes! The prototype. The very first operational model of the Woolverton!”

Martin and Bert raced into the Great Room. Artifacts everywhere. Planters, wheelbarrows, wagons, rusted tools, and in the middle of the room, on a marble pedestal, behind heavy white ropes and under a bright white spotlight- the Woolverton. Bert felt like he was in a church. He almost genuflected.

“Wow, I can hardly believe it. The original Woolverton.”

“Yep, the very one… the prototype… assembled by Isaac and Hannah. You can almost feel the love put into their handiwork.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Heavens, no! The Boss would flip if anyone touched it. It is the Mona Lisa of the farming world. It isn’t just the most significant piece in our museum; it may be the most important agricultural artifact in the world. No one… and I mean no one… is permitted past the ropes.”

“I understand. I’ll never go past the ropes.”

Bert was spellbound. Somewhere along the way, he had read something about the invention of the foot-powered potato planter and the way it changed the tater world. He also had heard about the existence of the original Woolverton, but he thought that was just a fanciful rumor. And there he was, just feet from Isaac’s invention. It was surreal.

“It’s beautiful, Martin.”

“The most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Does it still work?”

“Oh, my God, Bert, how would we know that? We would never try to operate it. The Boss won’t even let us touch it. Just be happy you can see the Woolverton every day. It is a privilege just to be so close to it, and to be able to appreciate its artistry and the effort that went into it. You are on hallowed ground, Bert.”

“I’m honored, sir.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Uh… who’s the Boss?”

“Patrick O’Sullivan, the billionaire shipping magnate. He’s the sole benefactor of the museum. His Great-great-great-great grandfather died in Ireland’s Great Potato famine in 1850. I guess that’s why he’s always been obsessed with having the best potato crops possible, and he knows the Woolverton has been a major boost for potato production worldwide. The guy has billions, but the Woolverton we have here is his most prized possession.”

“Interesting.”

“Well, Martin, I’ve got to get going. You can stick around for a while, you know, to familiarize yourself with the museum. Just be sure to lock up.”

“Thank you, sir. You hired the right man. It will be an honor to work here. Good night.”

Bert went back to feeling like he was in a church- the high ceilings, the absolute silence, with shadows of the farming equipment dancing on the walls and ceilings from the headlights of passing cars shining through the windows.

Bert walked to the Hall of Fame room and stood before the statue of Isaac Woolverton. Now he was in church. He felt the power of the man and reflected on his impact on the world. He was standing in the shadow of greatness.

Something in the human psyche tempts a person to view the hideous. Bert entered the Hall of Shame and scoffed at the boxes of potato flakes and the canisters of Pringles. It was apparent that someone, probably Martin, had tried to deface the Pringles containers by drawing a mustache on the guy in the picture, but he already had one.

Bert entered the Great Room. He studied the artifacts and referred to the descriptions of each one found in his manual, highlighting critical features and taking notes. And then the lure of the forbidden.

The Woolverton may have been the salvation of the potato industry for the farmers of a bygone era, but it was a magnet for poor Bert. It pulled, and pulled, and pulled. Without conscious effort, Bert found himself just feet from the magnificent foot-powered potato planter. He stood there in awe of this wondrous creation, frozen in place and barely able to breathe. The Woolverton… right there… for the… touching.

With the spotlight turned off, Bert studied the silhouette of this magnificent machine. The lines intersected perfectly and the angles were mesmerizing. He had never seen anything so beautiful. 

Bert was thinking. The thing had withstood the test of time and had survived thousands of plunges into the hardened earth. Surely a gentle touch could do no harm. Fortunately, his better angel landed softly on his right shoulder.

“Don’t do it, Bert. You gave your word.”

Unfortunately, the curse of temptation has beguiled mankind since the beginning, and the evil one found a comfy spot on Bert’s left shoulder.

“Bert, it’s the Woolverton! You may never have another chance. No one will ever know. Do it, man, do it.”

“Don’t listen to him, Bert. He only wants to cause trouble.”

“Zip it, you little dweeb. Bert, buddy, you don’t think Martin touches it? I hear he caresses the Woolverton nearly every night. And the word is that old man O’Sullivan has even taken it home and slept with the damn thing.”

“Liar! He’s the evil one, Bert! WWJD! WWJD!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Jesus never had a chance to touch the Woolverton.”

And so it went. The classic battle between good and evil ping-ponged back and forth in Bert’s mind for an hour as he nervously paced around the room. And finally…

A flicker of light caught the Woolverton just right and a tiny spot on the handle sparkled like a diamond. If only Bert had the assistance of Odysseus’ crew to bind him to a post to withstand the temptation, but the Woolverton beckoned, and Bert was weak.

Bert ducked under the rope and in a near trance, he shuffled to the pedestal. His hand seemed to no longer be a part of his body as it inched ever closer to the Woolverton.

The moment was electric. He felt a surge of pure joy race through him as his fingers met metal. His hands slowly moved from the handle at the top, down the main support, and finally rested on the foot pedal that changed the world. Nirvana, total consciousness, sheer bliss. If another good thing never happened to him for the rest of his life, Bert would have felt fulfilled.

But… we are sometimes not satisfied with getting what we want, and one misstep often leads to another. Bert was wondering how the darn thing worked.

He could see the interlocking parts. He understood the functions of the handle and the pointed edge at the bottom, but he was confused by the intervening cable and lever. Curiosity killed the cat, and it didn’t do much for Bert either. He had to know.

He applied what he considered to be gentle pressure to the foot pedal. When nothing happened, he applied a little more pressure. And then, the unspeakable. First a troubling grinding sound, then a sharp crack, and finally a loud crash as the foot pedal hit the floor.

Bert stood there like a mindless goof. When he came out of shock a few minutes later, he collapsed to the floor, went into full fetal position, and wept openly. He might have stayed there all night had not the most basic of all human instincts kicked in… self-preservation. He must repair the Wollverton.

Bert’s efforts were severely limited by the resources available to him. His frantic search of the entire facility yielded only a nearly empty bottle of Elmer’s Glue and a roll of Scotch Tape. Neither proved suitable for the task.

He made a mad dash to a hardware store and returned with four different kinds of epoxy and the Economy size roll of shipping tape. Amid a cacophony of expletives, the epoxies stubbornly refused to bond. Numerous layers of shipping tape managed to hold the foot pedal in place, but the corrective measures were quite noticeable. An exhausted Bert finally faced the reality of his situation. It was hopeless.

Bert took one last look at the wounded Woolverton, shed a few more tears, and mindlessly stumbled out of the Great Room. He stepped into the Hall of Fame Room, stood before the statue of the great Isaac Woolverton, and apologized profusely for what he had done. As he passed the Hall of Shame, he could only imagine his portrait occupying a prominent place on the wall. He might even get a spotlight.

The thought of facing Martin the next morning terrified him. He was a doomed man… unless he could think of a better option.

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When Martin arrived at work early the next morning, he found a note just inside the door.

Martin-

I got an urgent call from my Grandpa last night. He needs help on his farm so I’m headed back home. Thanks for everything.

                                                                   -Bert

P.S. Your museum rocks.