The Salad’s in My Hat

I did, last night, what so many women have done before me.

I baked two potatoes, put them in my pants pockets, and stepped into the night air to enjoy the cloudless sky.

What.  They don’t do that where you are?

I can’t remember ever having carried produce in my pockets before, but now that I have, I can foresee doing it again.  The warmth spreads across the legs, radiates a rich, root-ish heat while providing for a snack later.

And with the stars as my backdrop, the night air a crisp, bright thing, I consider calling someone to tell them of the potatoes in my pants.

Oddly enough, I can think of no one I should bother at this time of night.

It is just me, the night sky, and my taters.

And suddenly my grandma comes to mind.  She would appreciate this.  She would enjoy knowing that there was a side dish in my pockets.  A practical, hard-working woman, she had a whimsical bent to her, and with her one was free to speak of little rocks, of the pickles on the pennies – “Those are wheat, honey” – and where the birds go in winter.

“The barn swallows will stay,” she says.

I stare out the kitchen window, toward the barn.  “Why don’t they freeze?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, her hands in the sudsy water, “but you don’t think they’d stay if they knew they shouldn’t, do you?”

I think about that.  “No,” I admit.  “I don’t think they would.”

I stare up through the top of the leafless tree, think about how much closer to the sky the third floor deck is now that its canopy is gone.

And I smile into the distance.  “I’ve got baked potatoes wrapped in wash rags in my pants pockets, Grandma.”