spud

Well, that time of year is here again. Time to start throwing Christmas Potatoes. The site I had up for the last 3 years went dark because 100 bucks a year was stretching the budget. I will do my best to provide some more resources like PDF versions of the story and spud notes. 2010 marks the 29th year for the fact of throwing potatoes. Kinney's telling of the tale has been around since 1984.

I found out also that someone else published a book for children called "The Christmas Potato." The author even has a Facebook page. As far as our two stories I don't think they are anything alike. I wish her the best

Our version of the story is meant to be shared and the tradition passed from generation to generation and friend to friend much like a mug of weasel broth on a frosty winter's morn.

The Story of the Christmas Potato
as told by Kinney Isaacs

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Riley. He lived in a town called Topeka, which means, "a good place to dig potatoes."
Riley had three favorite things, and as long as he had those three things he would always be happy.








El Beano was one of Riley's favorite things. El Beano was a green toy army truck that Riley got for Christmas when he was two years old. Riley never had a pet when he was growing up. He didn't need one. He had El Beano. Riley played with him every day. El Beano was better than a pet. He didn't talk back. He never had to go outside. He would play whatever game Riley wanted to.






When Riley wasn't playing with El Beano the little truck rested on Riley's bed with Pepper, the teddy bear, and Riley's three lucky pillows.



Another one of Riley's favorite things was his toy space helmet. More than anything else in the world Riley wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. Back then no one had gone to the moon, and the space shuttle was just something out of a science fiction movie. At night Riley dreamed of life as an astronaut. He imagined visits to strange and weird planets. He dreamed of beings from other worlds and visits from the alien saucer people from outer space. Riley dreamed of saving the day and of the hero's kiss he would receive from Annette who was his favorite Mouseketeer.


If Riley couldn't be an astronaut he wanted to work in his grandfather's grocery store.

Riley's number one favorite thing wasn't a thing at all. It wasn't something you could have every day.












It was something you had to wait almost an entire year for. You could dream about it, but you still had to wait.






You had to wait all the way until Thanksgiving. It wasn't turkey. Riley's number one favorite thing was a feeling, and only one thing caused it.















Christmas lights! Every Thanksgiving meant it was time to flip the switch that meant a whole month of Christmas lights.











Christmas lights made Riley feel his number one most favorite thing. One time Riley tried to explain to his big sister and his little brother how the Christmas lights made him feel.

"Well it's like this," he said, "a lot of different things all mixed up. You know how you feel when you hug Mom or Dad, well, it's like that and more. It's like when you wake up from a good dream or eat a big hunk of fudge. It's like lying in front of the fan or jumping off the fence. It does to your brain what songs do to your ears. It's all the best things jumbled up together into one big ball of stuff. It's just that Christmas feeling."
When Riley tried to explain they just looked at him. He knew they understood even if they didn't think they did. They must.












Once the Christmas tree was decorated, Riley didn't need TV or books or relatives. With the lights on the tree all you had to do was stare,and your brain took over. The lights let Riley see the feeling and not just feel it.

Riley would place one of his lucky pillows under the tree and don his space helmet. Clutching El Beano Riley would gaze up into the tree and watch the lights. Thoughts would flood his brain. Plain and simple he just liked to looked at those lights.


Sometime before Christmas the whole family would go for a car ride. When Riley saw the lights all over town he wished there was some way he could say thank you to all the people who put up lights and let him feel his favorite thing.












The best way to say thank you would be to march up to the front door, knock, and tell the people. Because he was little boy, Riley didn't think his parents would let him do that.







If his handwriting was better than a C- he could send thank you cards. But even if people could read his handwriting, who would pay for all the stamps?
Riley wouldn't admit it to anyone, but for once in his life he was stumped. Every year at Christmas time Riley would try to think of a way to say thank you only to give up and say instead, "Maybe I'll figure something out next year."














Years came and went and Riley kept getting older. He lost El Beano and traded his space helmet for a movie camera. Riley found out that his life was different than he planned. He accepted it. But no matter what happened Thanksgiving came and brought with it the lights that Riley loved to watch. At least that didn't change and Riley never forgot about wanting to say thank you.

Then one November as he was driving home from work, he saw the first Christmas lights of the year. It was like getting hit in the head with a hammer or having a big rock fall on you.



If, when you got a good idea, a light bulb really formed above your head, Riley's light bulb would not have fit in the car-the idea was that good.







Riley thought, "Why not a potato?" And that's when the potato part of the Christmas potato started. Why not throw a potato into the yard of a house with pretty lights?







Riley realized that if someone came out in the morning and found a potato in the yard it would be a mystery. The people would say, "Who put this potato in my yard?"














So that people would know what the potato meant Riley made little Christmas cards that explained he just wanted to say thank you and "Merry Christmas." He wrapped the card and the potato in plastic wrap and tied each end with ribbon.



On Christmas Eve Riley filled a basket with potatoes and drove all over town. When he saw a house with Christmas lights he threw a potato into the yard. Finally, after years and years of trying and never really giving up Riley had found a way to say thank you.




Today, Christmas lights still give Riley that "Christmas light" feeling. Each year more and more children and adults around the country throw Christmas potatoes so that friends, neighbors, and even strangers know that their unselfish efforts during the holiday season are appreciated.
A big part of Christmas is letting people know how we feel. Wouldn't the world be a better place if some of our "Christmas feelings" stayed around all year long and spread to everybody? Maybe we can all work on that one next.

So, remember, if some morning you wake up and your yard is full of potatoes, it's just people saying, "Thank you and Merry Christmas."
Peace.
The note we attach to the spuds goes something like this:

No one is quite sure how the tradition of the Christmas Potato began. Many believe it began in the later half of the 20th century when a young man tossed seasonal greetings wrapped around uncooked potatoes into the yards of houses decorated with Christmas lights. It was his way of saying thank you and Merry Christmas.
Before the advent of the Christmas Potato there was no way to easily thank those who brighten our holiday season with their unselfish efforts. Now each year children and adults alike look forward to the annual pitching of the holiday spud.
But why a potato? The young man grew up in a town called Topeka which means a good place to dig potatoes.

In my opinion...

Today would be my mother's 84th birthday. She died back in '94. I'm not sure I will ever fully understand the relationship between my mother and her children. For each of us it was a different ride, yet always that "A" ticket. Looking back I always think it should be the stuff of a great movie or book. Maybe everybody feels that way about their folks. I know I can guarantee I saw some stuff, experienced some things that none of my friends did. Likewise, I'm sure stuff happened to them too that I've never thought about.

Late last night, while shivering without a working furnace, I put some thoughts down. Why I feel the need to share them I don't know. Maybe I think that if I just start that unpublished book or non-produced screenplay will show up in the future. Trust me, if I ever got it done it would be a bestseller, not because of anything I did being the conduit that got the story told, but because of the story and character that was my mother. I never met anybody else like her. Let me just say, we were close, very close for almost 9 months, and from then on I was pure aggravation for her.

Happy birthday, Mom!

.

My mom was... an enigma, a will-o'-the wisp, A flibbertigibbet!, A clown! Cut the clown part.(Mom if you are checking this, note that I said very clearly cut the clown) That does not describe her at all. Still, she was as much a conundrum as Maria ever thought about being. Trying to be one of her kids was an adventure. A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E, right here in River City, and that rhymes with P and that stands for...

Looking back I think I can say I knew 10 or 11 different mom(s). There was:

Prior to State Hospital Mom, Mom until Kansas Farmer, Kansas Farmer Mom, Capper’s Weekly Mom, Austin Mom, Post Cancer Mom, Dialysis Mom, Understandably Bitter Mom, Widow Mom, then of course the late Mom. Late mom segues into Saint Mom, which happens to most normal people when they die.

Casual sainthood occurs when we finally forgive those we love for all the perceived slights and peevish behavior that always made us so mad at them. True, there are folks who are truly unforgivable and they don’t get that benefit of a cleaned slate after death. I have a cousin, he and I are never hesitant to critique or criticize our fellow family members, we talk often and joke about the family habit of “beatification” of the dead. Complain and moan about them all the time when they are alive and as soon as the heart has stopped beating time to treat them like a saint and forget all the bad.

Thinking about Mom there is so much I’d like to say about her. Lots of stuff I’d like to talk to her about. I could talk about how she always favored my brother and sister over me or how she could be so pig headed with her strong opinions or how she and Dad fought just to pass the time of day. And what was the deal with her pills, there were so many of them...okay, she had no control over that and as much as helping her with her pills would frustrate me then, now I consume more than she ever did every single day. My years of training at the edge of her pill can prepared me for dealing with the handful I take each day. As I think about the aspects of Mom that frustrated me I am forced to admit, cliched as it might be, that those traits that bothered me the most, that drove me nuts, are behaviors I see in myself.

I got so much from my parents. Yes, there is both good and bad when I review my list of “gifts.” I remember the good the most, although I’ve never shied away from discussing the negative. It all goes into the whole of what folks mean to us.


my mother, Sammy, not Sammie or Samantha, but Sammy

I cannot recall that she was ever wrong about anything, in my opinion

Help is gift we offer no matter when, where, who, why, or what, in my opinion

Doctors and garbage-men should be paid the same, in my opinion

If it is a book, read it, in my opinion

Support the arts, experience them, in my opinion

Take walks with children, in my opinion

Be respectful, gracious, kind, say thank you, in my opinion

Read the paper, keep up with current affairs, express ideas, use reason, defend positions, in my opinion

Be only intolerant of intolerance, in my opinion

Take notes, wear powder and lipstick so you won't look like a ghost, in my opinion

Hope to not be disappointed, in my opinion

Be nicer to your siblings, in my opinion

If you wash feet, change socks, they won't smell so bad, in my opinion

Avoid electro shock if you want to remember French, in my opinion

Always say, in your opinion, in my opinion

In my opinion she remains an iconic character who deserves to have her story told, she was a scraper, a fighter, time traveler, a champion of lost causes and souls, she always asked the question others steered clear of, she was short tempered, used profanity artistically, believed in the truth, she was filled with indignant rage at times, a saint to have lived forty plus years with my father. When I saw her after I was an adult I could count on being told, "Rile, you are crazier than hell!"

She was forced to face the trials of a she-Job and kept going, she was that pink rabbit on television until finally that last weekend’s family gatherings in Graford zapped and drained the battery, she was tired, worn out, whipped and I'm thinking when she got in bed that night she prayed the prayer of the supplicant seeking relief,

Dear God, it has been a good life, I’ll give you that. I'm tired, very tired. I really don't want to take all those pills and fight the battles I do. You try dialysis for nearly a decade, and cancer, depression, living with that...s.o.b., god I miss him, Forgive me, but could I just get a break. Just one, I just want to go to sleep and rest. I mean really rest, I mean rest the rest of the just and head on to into the sunset and take on what's next in the fullness of time. If I've done my job, and I think I have, god only knows, I mean I hope you are aware that I've tried, those I leave behind can handle what they have to face and if they can't by god, they ought to. I just hope they aren't disappointed. So, let me rest. If that isn't workable, well okay. but think about it. I will keep doing what you want me to. Amen

My mother, she never gave up.
My only regret is that while she was living I never did anything right, in HER opinion.
I tried.

Her headstone stands at McAdams as the last memorial to her life
An unmovable stone she must share with my father, her husband, when she and everyone else knows she should have gotten her own
She deserved at least that
I think it is pretty decent as headstones go
a Doig quote, "here lies all of them that could die"
a sentiment I find comforting
one minor detail
her birth-date is off by one year
once again I failed her
I mean the mistake is etched in stone
It seems fitting that even at the very end, it is always something, a screw up, a hassle, a trial
She didn't complain, she accepted it and moved on
So far, at least, she hasn’t said anything to me about it

Her name was Sammy
she was the only mother that could love a son like me,
in my opinion