The Spuds

It was the kind of morning that made you want to wrap a quilt around your shoulders and sip something warm. The sun peeked over the hills, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, while the trees rustled with leaves the color of pumpkins and ripe apples. The air smelled like warm honey, fresh-cut grass, and a hint of woodsmoke curling from Fred’s chimney. Farmer Fred’s little farmhouse, with its worn white paint and pale red roof, nestled quietly among golden wheat fields and a potato patch that had once been the pride of the land—before Daisy passed away.

Fred was an old man now, with hands rough as burlap and eyes that crinkled like the edges of a well-loved map. His silver hair poked from beneath a worn straw hat, and his overalls hung looser these days. He’d been up since before dawn, stirring oatmeal on the stove while Elvis, his droopy-eared hound, snoozed by the fireplace. Elvis, Fred’s loyal shadow, had a howl that could wake the moon. "Mornin’, boy," Fred said, placing kibble on the floor. Elvis yawned, stretched, and ambled over, tail wagging.

After breakfast, Fred took his walking stick—a gnarled branch Daisy had carved with stars—and headed to the creek. He passed the barn, where the chickens murmured, and through aspens that shimmered gold. The creek bubbled over smooth stones, and Fred dipped his feet into the cool water, letting his thoughts drift to days gone by. From there, he could see the potato patch, overgrown now, but once Daisy’s pride. He pictured her laughter as she dug up spuds with her little shovel.

She’d been his Firefly—his light in the dark. He met her at seventeen, at the Autumn Fair, where she wore a dress the color of bluebells and a daisy brooch pinned over her heart. Her smile across a table of apple pies had changed everything. Now the patch, her patch, had grown wild, and Fred couldn’t bear to touch it.

That evening, wrapped in a quilt, Fred rocked on the porch. Fireflies floated above the potato patch, always in the same spot. He thought of Daisy each time. "Firefly," he’d called her, because she glowed in his life like nothing else. As the chair creaked and Elvis snored, Fred drifted off to dreams he couldn’t remember, only feel—warm, soft, like Daisy’s hand in his.

But that night, something changed. The air was crisper, the moon a silver sliver. Fred nodded off as usual, but Elvis stirred. His ears perked, nose twitching, he let out a low bark. The fireflies weren’t just floating—they were dancing, darting. Elvis barked again, louder. Fred woke with a start. “What is it, boy?”

Elvis was already off the porch, running for the potato patch. Fred groaned, grabbed his lantern, and followed, the quilt trailing like a cape. "Elvis, it's just fireflies!" he called. But when he reached the edge, he stopped cold.

The "fireflies" weren’t bugs. They were potatoes. Glowing. Hopping. Alive.

Fred rubbed his eyes. But there they were—a village of spuds, tucked among the weeds. Tiny homes carved from the earth. Lanterns glowing from hollowed-out tubers. Fred stared, stunned.

There was Baked Potato, round and golden, in a tie-dye shirt. Sweet Potato, glowing orange, swayed as if dancing to music only she could hear. Frenchie, a skinny fry in a beret, crooned, "My sweet potato, you are zee light of my life!" The Tater Tots, marble-sized and mischievous, tumbled with glee. Mashed Potato, lumpy and gentle, muttered calming words. And Hash Brown, crusty and bossy, barked orders to keep the chaos in check.

“I must be dreaming,” Fred whispered. Elvis wagged his tail.

“Duuuude, the big farmer dude sees us,” said Baked Potato, blinking up at him.

Fred blinked. “Is this… real?”

Sweet Potato stepped forward, warm and bright. “As real as the dirt we grew from. We’ve been here all along, waitin’ for you.”

They led him into the patch. He saw huts of potato skins, vine roofs, and pebble paths lined with bits of quartz Daisy had once scattered. A stream trickled through, feeding the land. Baked Potato strummed a guitar made of twig and twine. Frenchie spun Sweet Potato, laughter dancing with them. The Tater Tots splashed in the water. Mashed Potato offered Fred a butter pat. “For comfort,” he said shyly.

Fred sat, dazed. Hash Brown explained, “We’ve kept the patch alive. She stopped comin’, but we kept growin’. She sang to us.”

“You mean… Daisy?” Fred asked.

Sweet Potato nodded. “She planted us with love. That’s why we glow.”

Night after night, Fred returned. He brought Daisy’s old shovel, not to harvest, but to help. The spuds cheered him on, the Tater Tots rolling at his boots. Laughter returned to the farm.

One night, Fred told them about Daisy—her bluebell dress, her daisy brooch, how she’d lit his world. “Those lights you see?” said Baked Potato, strumming. “That’s us, man. Her love’s still here.”

Sweet Potato touched his knee. “She’s why we glow. And now you’re glowin’ too.”

Fred's tears were warm, like the first spring thaw.

The next day, his granddaughter Willow arrived, pigtails bouncing. She found him trimming vines, smiling. “Grandpa, you look happy,” she said, peering at the patch. She didn’t see the spuds—just a glow, like fireflies. “It feels like Grandma’s here.”

Fred squeezed her hand. “She is, Willow. I don’t think she ever really left.”

As frost crept in, Fred brought a tin of Daisy’s yarn—blues and yellows from old scarves. “Can’t have you spuds catchin’ a chill,” he said. He tied tiny threads around them, the Tater Tots squealing. “Serious cozy vibes,” Baked Potato said.

“Zis is ze height of fashion!” declared Frenchie.

That night, the spuds surprised Fred with a chair of moss and leaves. “For you, Mr. Fred—a thank-you,” said Sweet Potato. Fred sat, misty-eyed. Hash Brown barked, “Harvest dance!” Baked Potato strummed. Frenchie and Sweet Potato twirled. The Tater Tots rolled in giddy circles. Fred laughed—a sound he hadn’t made in too long.

Sweet Potato tugged his hand. “Dance with us!”

Fred shuffled into the circle, slow at first, then steady. Elvis howled along. The patch glowed like a lantern-lit fair.

Later, wrapped in the leaf chair, Fred looked up. He saw a shimmer—the shape of Daisy’s bluebell dress. Willow sat beside him, sketchbook in hand, capturing the glow.

“Draw the fireflies, Grandpa!” she said.

He guided her pencil. She drew Baked Potato’s swirls, Frenchie’s beret, Sweet Potato’s smile. She didn’t know they were real, but she felt their magic.

The spuds gathered close. Sweet Potato smiled, voice like a lullaby. “We’ll keep shinin’, Mr. Fred. For her. For you.”

Fred pulled Willow close beneath the quilt. “Goodnight, Firefly,” he whispered, not just to Daisy, but to everything she left behind. The patch twinkled back—a glowing promise that love, once planted, never fades.