There were dishes, a couple of paintings, and winter clothing. We’d even squeezed in some of Lori’s favorite books and souvenirs from their travels, which didn’t take up much space and made her happy. That made me happy, as did the potatoes in my trunk. There had to be six or seven hundred pounds of them, and my springs and shocks sagged under the weight. There wasn’t a lot of clearance, so I’d have to take it slow along the lane leading out of the farm or I’d leave my muffler behind. It wasn’t like I could stop at the muffler shop and get a new one, though I was pretty sure that, between them, Mr. Nicholas and the rest of the engineers and the mechanics would come up with something if it was needed. Every vehicle, including the hay wagon, was filled to capacity with potatoes. Mr. Peterson did a rough estimate. He thought we’d pulled out close to thirty-eight thousand spuds. Everybody was sore and dirty, and their fingers were blistered and bleeding. Despite it all, there was almost a euphoric feeling.
