“Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald
* * *
I had rented a cabin in the Ozarks to finish a draft of my first novel, the perfect getaway right by a river and a historic bridge. What I hadn’t checked on the internet was the weather, where a major rainstorm had wreaked havoc on Southern Missouri the day before. On my white-knuckle drive down, just the smallest bit of rain could have made the water-filled ditches nearby indistinguishable from the highway I was on. As I drove into this solid red country, I kept a close watch on the rising waters and couldn’t help thinking there was some metaphor in all this. It was the same precarious balance our country had been in since 2016. 8 years later, we were bracing ourselves for another election, where it was almost impossible to find common ground without getting sucked into the ditch.
Arriving safely at the campsite, I was relieved to find my cabin hadn’t slid into the nearby stream, while the river’s roar was unmistakable even before you got near it. I took my dog for a quick walk to check it out, marveling at the maelstrom the Sac River had become, completely brown and churning with mud, twigs, and full tree branches. On a closer inspection, I started noticing small brown oblong things bobbing up everywhere too, some kind of unidentified floating objects. Getting closer to the riverbank, I realized these round objects weren’t some debris from the nearby forest. These were potatoes, and they seem to float by every 30 seconds.
My first thought was, why in the hell are they in the water and where did they come from?
And my second thought was, I never knew that potatoes could float?
It was much too early in the growing season for potatoes to become that mature in the ground and then to be suddenly washed away by a storm. And why didn’t they just drop to the bottom like a small rock would do? I was at a loss with any scenarios. I wondered what the locals would say about this?
Maybe they done fell off some potato truck, or something?
No, it was too easy to caricature these folks in my head. I had moved to Missouri four years ago, trying to see life differently, after spending a good part of my life in New York. Without really looking, everyone could be seen as slow country folk, even half-wits, or hillbillies, especially now that I was in the heart of the Ozarks. “Falling off some truck” had a similar ring to it, like “falling off the turnip truck,” the latter being a colloquialism used by college-educated people like me to make themselves feel superior when they were the outsider in a situation. But people around here too had their secret ammo against outsiders. Little did I know when I moved to Missouri, that saying, “bless his heart,” was by no means an endearing compliment to me. Little did I know at the time; I had just been described as falling off the turnip truck too.
On my next break from writing, I took a different route with my dog and walked across the Caplinger Mills Bridge. It’s a beautiful old iron truss structure from the late 1800s, originally connecting the powerhouse and grist mill on the other side. While these buildings are no longer functional and heavily graffitied, the bridge itself is in heavy use by fisherman with their lines out as soon as the sun comes up, and until the last light passes over the black walnut trees.
My dog quickly pulled me onto the bridge as she smelled fish guts. As she pulled me, I stopped to talk with various fisherman that packed the bridge on either side.
“What are you catching?” I started a conversation with a man in overalls, well-worn work boots, a well-worn face, and with a stars and stripes bandana wrapped around his head. His age was indeterminate—either from living or working hard, or both. He was preparing to cast off and sitting next to a younger woman who is also fishing and wearing a matching red, white and blue tank top. It wasn’t clear if they were related, either father and daughter, or married. I wasn’t assuming anything.
“Got a crappie, walleye and even good lookin’ catfish too”
He proudly opened the top of his plastic pail from Home Depot next to the woman, to reveal all his catches swimming around in the pail’s water.
“She’s a beauty, don’t you think?” he said and winked at me.
I was fairly sure he was referring to the catfish in the pail, not the young woman next to him, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
“Ah come on now, you old bastard” she said, while playfully hitting him. “You’re not going win no beauty contest with your sorry ass. At least I got all my original teeth.”’
We all laughed. He appreciated I got his sense of humor and continued.
“It’s always a big crowd after a big storm. Nothing better than a storm to get them fish looking every which way for their food.”
Feeling a bit at ease myself, I decided to bring up my recent sighting of unidentified floating objects.
“You know,” I began. “I saw a bunch of potatoes floating down the river earlier today.”
“Hmmm,” the man simply said while nodding his head.
I continued.
“I had no idea where they came from. And I’m not sure how they got there either.”
The man stayed politely silent, continuing to nod his head and listening to me intently.
“Hell, I didn’t even know that potatoes could float.”
There was a little pause, as he pondered it all.
“You know, you see so many strange things in times like this,” he began, fixing his gaze somewhere in the distance, either at the most turbulent part of the stream or just deep in thought.
“Everything gets so muddled after the storm, you don’t know what is what.”
It was now my turn to nod my head and ponder—unable to determine if he was speaking in metaphors or just about fishing. And with that, he cast off his line back into the water. My dog did something similar, pulling on the leash to get me going, either in search of more fish guts to smell or wanting to relieve herself. I smiled to them both. And they returned that friendly Midwestern smile.
* * *
When returning to my cabin, I was expecting to start writing again, but I found an older woman in front of my door.
“You ought to be careful out on that bridge” she informed me. “Not the safest place to be. Been a few accidents out there, if you know what I mean.”
Her warning was both odd and ominous and filled my head with questions. What did she mean about it being “unsafe”? Was it because of the rickety boards? Or did someone “accidently” fall off it? And how did she know I was on the bridge in the first place?
Before I could clarify all this, she introduced herself.
“I’m Linda. Nice to meet you.”
She put out her hand and shook mine just as strong as any man in such a situation.
“My son owns the place. But I’m in charge of it during the week. What brings you here?”
By the way she firmly shook my hand, I was sure she was in charge of this place all the time.
“I’m finishing a novel,” I tell her.
“A writer, good for you,” she said, but then got a tinge of suspicion as she considered my words. “You writin’ about these parts?” she questioned me, making me feel like I was some college professor with patches on my corduroy jacket who was finishing an anthropological study on the inhabitants of the Ozarks.
Linda carried herself like a twenty-something woman, despite being in her mid-70s, with feathered hair held over from the 70s, and with a fit physique in her tight Guess jeans. She wore a prominently placed silver crucifix around her neck. Her hazy powder blue eyes didn’t seem to blink at all.
“No, I’m not writing about around here. It’s more a novel loosely based on my family.”
Feeling a little defensive, and wanting to move on from my writing, I changed the subject back to her warning.
“And thanks for the advice, I’ll make sure to be careful out on the bridge,” I said, while pressing her more on the subject. “I did notice the abandoned powerhouse on the other side. Looks like someone is still using it, maybe for parties, with all the graffiti on the walls.”
“Nope, we took care of that. We got cameras installed down there, making sure nothing happens ever again. It’s a family area now, watched over by God. A place you can come to rest and unwind.”
The mention of the cameras got me nervous, wondering how many other cameras had been “installed” around here? I changed the subject to the weather.
“It was quite a storm you just had. The river is just crazy. How many inches did you end up with?”
“They say 5 inches, I don’t know,” she replied, seeming unimpressed by the storm. “It doesn’t matter how many inches. It isn’t real anyway. They are always seeding the clouds, you know.”
“Hmm,” I said, drawing out the ‘hmm’ for effect. Many things flashed through my head.
Next thing she’ll be telling me is how the rain is being controlled by Jewish space lasers, I thought. But I kept my Jewish heritage to myself, while not letting on to her I knew nothing about lasers either. Instead, I just asked a simple question, thinking I was being innocuous.
“And who are ‘they’ that are controlling the rain?”
As soon as those words came out of my mouth, she blinked for the first time. I thought I had gone too far; I had crossed over a line. I had compared her to a basket of deplorables, like she had hit a bump in the road and fell off the truck with all the turnips. But Linda held her ground, replying with a matter-of-fact assuredness.
“I can't say who ‘they’ are. All I know is it’s true and they’re controlling the rain. You can believe what you want.”
There was an awkward pause after her declarative sentence. I didn’t want to be complicit with her conspiracy theory. Nor did I want to offend the proprietor of the place I was staying at.
“You know what’s also weird,” I started, wanting to find common ground, while pointing down to the stream. “I saw a bunch of potatoes floating down the river earlier this morning. I have no idea where they came from. Do you?”
“You don’t say,” she opaquely replied, while not answering my question. She stared straight at me with those cloudy blue eyes, then slowly turned her head to the stream. A bunch of branches continued to roll by. Then some logs. There was even a full tree that was stuck out there. But there were no signs of any floating potatoes anywhere.
She turned back to me.
“Hmm” she repeated, drawing out this word just like I had minutes before. Touche, I thought to myself.
I felt a bit sheepish now and kept turning back to the river as we talked, hoping to be vindicated. All I saw out there was this giant tree stuck on some boulders and thrashing around, trying to break free. I empathized with that tree, just wanting to go back into my cabin and return to my writing. Then finally, I spotted a small round thing coming down stream towards us.
“See, look,” I said pointing back to the river, trying not to take too much pleasure in it, while relieved I wasn’t appearing crazy.
We both craned our necks, trying to make out what it was. There was indeed a round floating object out there. Yet, it appeared to be different as it came near us. It was small, white and not so oblong like a potato. As it got closer, it resembled a small white bouncy ball.
A smile formed on her face, but she wasn’t necessarily gloating. It was an accepting smile I had come to expect from most strangers since moving to the Midwest.
“Yep, you can believe what you want to believe. That’s your right.”
“Point taken,” I nodded as I watched the white ball now drift down stream. I was thankful we’d come to some friendly impasse in our conversation. I was just happy she hadn’t said “bless your heart.”
“Well, you have a relaxing time while you’re here. Get some good writin’ done on your novel. Or just take a nap. It’s the perfect place to do it in God’s country. And if you need me, I am always around.”
I thanked her, while mulling over her slightly ominous statement about “always being around.” No, I don’t think I will be taking a nap anytime soon.
I never saw Linda again. Nor did I see any more floating potatoes. I continued my walks with my dog those days by the riverbanks and across the Caplinger Mills Bridge to chat with the fishermen. While the river continued to roar and swirl, I had become accustomed to the muddle in the water.
AFTERWORDS
In case you have more questions about either side of the story, here are some places you can visit.
NASA’ based experiment: Potato Float
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration: Weather Modification Project Reports
And if you just want to see some footage of a potato floating down a river...
Thanks for this. Great read.