The following story was written by my Grandfather, after whom I was named. It is a remarkable story about how a half rotten potato had a part in influencing many, many people around the world. It shows our potential in life if we are willing to die to self and allow God to use us.
One Lone ‘Tater
By J. Mark Blosser
My son (John H. Blosser) and family, missionaries on furlough from
A few weeks later while John was looking for some other article, he just happened to see this last little potato. By this time, it was almost half rotten. His first impulse was to throw it away, but then he noticed that it had several live sprouts. Something must have stirred within his compassionate missionary heart which prompted him to take it out into the garden and plant it.
I became interested in this little potato in a real way when one day he took me out into the garden and showed me what he had done. It had already developed into a lovely plant. With one of his big contagious smiles he turned to me and said, “Now, dad, I would like for you to plant what I get from this and carry it on for four more years as a missionary project.”
I was astounded. That seemed like a big order, but after we joined in a hearty laugh, I replied, as I was prone to do, “OK, John, I think that would be fun.” I little thought what would be involved in carrying it on to completion.
His potato stalk continued to grow nicely and already I think it showed evidence of being destined for great things. During the summer months, we amused ourselves by mathematical calculations as we visualized truckloads of potatoes going to market four years hence. With such substantial returns John could extend the borders of his missionary work about which he had dreamed.
One day while in a poetical mood, I expressed his sentiments in a bit of verses. It was in part as follows:
A little potato lay lost and forgotten
In an attic ‘til it was almost half-rotten.
It looked for a time that its end was near
Until John in mercy just happened to appear.
He saw the potato all shriveled and stinking
Till its poor plight just set him to thinking:
“This poor lost potato all shrunken and blighted
Looks much like heathen, poor, lost, and benighted
This poor lost potato in its lost condition
Reminds me of sinners without Christ’s remission.”
Then all of a sudden as he rolled it about
He happened to notice it had started to sprout.
But on with the story-
Before returning to
The following spring I planted those golden nuggets, making 25 hills. Needless to say, I gave them all the loving care possible, cultivating and spraying all summer long. And then my labor was rewarded with 249 potatoes, or about one and one fourth bushel. By simple arithmetic I figured that at this rate of increase (and, I thought, being very conservative) we should have at least 25 bushel at next harvest time. With these figures at hand, I sent the good news to John in
The next spring, I again made plans for planting. The potatoes had already out-grown my limited garden space, so I told the story to five farmer friends. They gladly consented to help me. My potato project had now become a cooperative venture. I gave each one their allotted share, feeling that I had placed them in good hands. We soon found that being missionary potatoes did not mean that they would be, in any way, immune to disease or exempt from devastations common to all potatoes. I am inclined to think that the worst culprit was the poor soil conditions not being suited or adapted to potato culture. It did appear, however, that my arithmetic had been in error, for the returns gathered at harvest time did not add up to what I had expected. We found, at this time, that we were in the possession of at least eleven bushel and with wiser heads, hoping that we could do better next year.
I learned that the old adage “Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched,” also applied to potatoes. I placed them in storage to carry over for further planting. Here again I met with disappointment when in the spring I found that I now had a lot of wilted potatoes matted together with long sprouts. As potato seeds, they were in deplorably poor condition.
I determined, however, to continue the project as we had planned and use such as was at hand, including those sprouts. Perhaps it was the Scotch blood surging through my veins; I planted those sprouts also, alternating them with hills of regular potato seed. The results were most gratifying. You may believe it or not, but at digging time it was difficult to determine which had grown from sprouts. In this way I had increased the yield from my patch a great deal. It had been with reluctance and some apprehension that I had farmed out the rest of my seed much the same as the previous year, but, having put my hand to the wheel I could not turn back. The growing season was favorable in every respect but the harvest revealed that wiser heads had not as yet produced better potatoes. Instead we now had from several patches a lot of scabby unsightly potatoes. Then too, we suffered a real set-back in the loss of at least eleven bushel in a flooded area, causing rot. We had left 60 bushel for planting.
Should we again plant such potatoes? To do so would seem to have invited further disappointment. To some I would have given evidence of wisdom if I had written “finis” to my story at this time. But it was not in my heart to do so. There was just one year left to our planned project. Then too, there was already revolving in my mind certain plans and operations that I felt would bring ultimate success. The good spirit that must have protected that lone ‘tater in those first hectic days must have been hovering near to encourage me to continue.
Up to this time our potatoes, for the most part, had been produced under very ordinary farm conditions often in ground not suited for successful potato culture with little or no disease control measures. To continue we would need to use more scientific methods. It would first be necessary to find a proper storage. This was secured in the use of an abandoned hillside apple storage place. It would be further necessary to find a place where all of our potatoes could be planted in one field of suitable ground where disease control measures could be put into operation. But where to find such an ideal place – that was the question.
Like one of old, I started out one day not knowing where I was going. I was providentially directed to a good friend, a successful potato grower who proved himself a friend indeed. The Lord must have prepared his heart, for almost at once, upon hearing my story and predicament, he said that he thought he could help us. And, to my surprise he offered to give us the use of all his potato farming equipment, including enough really good ground for all of our needs. My gratitude was unbounded and I am not sure but I may have broken speed laws in returning home to report my good fortune. This, then, seemed to be the solution to all of our problems.
In due time the ground was fitted and the potatoes prepared for planting. When time for planting came it was a matter of only a few hours until they were all in the ground ready to grow. The rows of plants made their appearance in a surprisingly short time and the growing season was again favorable with the exception of a record-breaking heat wave. Soon it was a beautiful sight to behold: the potatoes growing in one plat of a little over two acres – one mat of luscious green dotted with white blossoms. I will confess that during the summer months I made numerous detours and leisurely drove past to view the beautiful field, reassuring myself that they were doing well. One day near the end of the season I parked my car along the road and walked through the field. I suddenly became curious to know what was going on under-ground. Were those nice potato stocks going to produce nice potatoes? So I stopped and very carefully dug several hills, and sure enough already there were a nest of nice clean “spuds”. If this was a fair sample I had nothing more to fear.
Harvest time was soon at hand, and with it the potato digging day arrived. With plenty of faithful help by my side, we followed the big two-row digger to the field. We were thrilled beyond description as it nosed its way through the ground. Like a bunch of excited school kids we followed along, both young and old, as best we could, watching the nice potatoes as they rolled to the top of the ground. There was little evidence of the potato scab which had been our worst enemy. Finally I stopped and gazed in amazement. Was it a miracle? It was difficult to believe that those beautiful potatoes were offspring of the parent stock we had planted in previous years. Certainly the scientific methods we had employed had paid good dividends.
We soon realized that we had encountered a back-breaking job picking up potatoes and, with some of the helpers, enthusiasm soon waned as they suddenly remembered that they had other work to do. But then, thanks to our beloved “shepherd of the flock” who had rushed home and sent out numerous telephone S.O.S. calls, enough new recruits soon arrived so that by sundown we had dug, bagged and transported them all to a storage place. Only then were we able to relax and review the results of our day's labor; tired, but happy.
And then we were agreeably surprised when we were met by a certain good lady, who led us to a lighted lawn table laden with refreshments. After a time of good fellowship – revived and feeling the blessing of the Lord – we returned home to tell of our day’s accomplishments.
About a week later we again met to grade and prepare the potatoes for market. With a very cooperative group of men I formed a “potato brigade”, keeping a continuous flow of potatoes over the grader and back into sacks – then over a scale, into 50 pound lots. The monotony of the work was broken by an occasional interruption for coffee or cokes, or for an occasional song such as “When We All Get to Heaven” or “Work for the Night Is Coming.” This continued for three evenings when at last with a glad “Hurrah” we saw the last potato roll down into the sack. They were now all ready for market. We found we had a little over 700 bags, 600 of which were first grade.
It seemed to us at this time that we had hurtled the last obstacle. It would be a simple matter to sell and dispose of them all. Our enthusiasm was of short duration through as the sorrowful news reached our ears that because of a bumper crop in other places the price was at a long-time low. We now found ourselves in the same boat with other potato growers. In fact, we were informed that some were plowing them under rather than place them on a glutted market. Wholesalers were buying only a limited quantity at reduced prices. Our potatoes were in bags and to hold them, which would involve additional labor and expense, was out of the picture. Truly, we were in another predicament.
We left them set for a number of weeks while various ways and mean were considered to sell them at a profit, none of which seemed to be the right answer. We spent some anxious days, but recovered as we were reminded that they were the Lord’s potatoes, and He would not let us fail at this point. We became aware of the fact that there were numerous potential customers – in the churches or otherwise – that could use them all if we could get them to buy. With a woman’s intuition, John’s mother suggested that we ask the churches to take orders and see what would happen. This was done and worked beautifully.
We had set the price at the average prevailing retail prices and promised to deliver at central places. Salesmen were appointed and others, self-appointed, took orders. All that was needed was to tell the story of the little potato and, presto, a sale was made.
This continued until to our consternation we found that we had more orders than potatoes. My dilemma at this time may be amusing to some – one day I was afraid that the potatoes would not sell; the next I realized that we did not have enough. If there would be a moral connected with this it would be: Do not be over-anxious or fearful when you are handling the Lord’s potatoes (or what have you). We should have had at least sixty more bags to fill orders.
By taking an average of the number of bags, we estimated that there were nearly a quarter of a million potatoes produced – all from that one little lone ‘tater. In its struggle for existence it had made a wonderful recovery.
The work, for which it was destined however, was only at its beginning. This fact was made known to us as John happily informed us that the success of our potato project was the deciding factor in starting the work of a mission in the big city of
The good it will do may yet be concealed—
In eternity someday it may be revealed.
The reward from one ‘lone ‘tater yet remains
To God be the glory for what it attains.
Written by: J. Mark Blosser
--father of John H. Blosser & grandfather of J. Mark Blosser
