One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, Soar: Saving Garden Space with a Potato Tower

Reader Contribution by Ric Bohy
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season’s potato crop, like all our other crops but chile peppers, was pretty
much a bust.

We planted three varieties in rows in one of our raised beds after mixing two-year-old
composted horse manure into the soil. It was a

rich, black, loamy bed, and once
the seed potato pieces went into the ground, hopes were high for some tens of
pounds of Yukon golds, russets, and Peruvian purples in late summer or fall.

all of them sprouted, and as the sprouts grew, we carefully mounded fresh dirt
around and up the stems, a maneuver meant to keep sunlight off the spuds that
develop on shoots running off the mother plant. If the taters get light during
development, and even after they’ve been picked, they tend to go greenish on
and under the skin and turn toxic. For the science minded, the green layer
contains the alkaloids solanine and
chaconine, which are related to and as strong as strychnine. Nasty stuff, of

in 2006, The Journal of Agricultural and Food Chemistry published a
study in which researchers exposed four common varieties of potatoes to
simulated grocery store lighting for 10 days, and then measured the toxic
green. Most of it was in the skins in varying amounts, sometimes over the safe
level for human consumption. But there were no dangerous amounts in the flesh.
The conclusion
was essentially what our mothers taught us: Pare off the green
layer and eat the potato. (The researchers did offer one warning, though,
saying that people who eat pared greenish spuds every day could still build up
toxic levels of the alkaloids.)

That was of little concern anyway in our crop last
year. The plants yellowed and fell over early, showing some kind of blight. We
dug them up and found maybe 10 pounds of new potatoes – just about the same
amount we had planted in the first place. They were delicious and too quickly

Between blight, Japanese beetles, drought, and
persistent insufferable heat, we got little else out of last season’s plantings.

We’ve gone on the offensive early this year. Already
treated with milky spore last year, our beds and the surrounding areas have also
been dusted, and soon will be again, with food
diatomaceous earth. This fossil product is comprised of countless razor-sharp
microscopic particles that slice up the innards and outers of any grubs and other
destructive bugs that encounter them, killing them within a few days. But it
can be safely consumed by humans and other sizable beasties, including pets and
livestock. Chickens are treated with it to control mites, as are dairy cows and
beef cattle and many other animals. It is, in a literal sense, safe organic
pest control. We have high hopes for it. (I should stress, again, that only
food grade diatomaceous earth should be used for this. Another sort, used in
swimming pool filters, is not safe for gardens and livestock.)

Because we’re planting more and different varieties
of vegetables this year, we didn’t want to give over a whole bed to potatoes,
in case they were again a problem crop. I thought about growing some in a
50-gallon drum, and still had one left from the three I brought with us from
Detroit, where I’d found them clean and cheap.

Then Vicki ran across something online that we’d
never before seen – a “potato tower.” While the poster credited Mexican growers
with the invention, I haven’t been able to find any corroborating evidence.
Wherever it came from, though, it makes sense, is inexpensive, and seemed well
worth trying.

It’s also simple. Form a length of wide-mesh
light-gauge wire fence into a cylinder, stand it on end, line it with straw,
and fill it with layers of soil, planting seed potatoes as you go until it’s
full. The plants sprout sideways through the straw and wire mesh, the taters
grow inside the tower, and when harvest time comes, you tip the whole thing
onto its side and collect the treasures within. No forking. No damage. Minimal
toil. And reusable soil, if only for the compost bin.

Happily, soon after we moved in I discovered several
folded lengths of just the kind of fencing I wanted, discarded in the woods at
front of our homestead. I retrieved it last weekend, unfolded it,
straightened out the kinks, and rolled it into a cylinder about two feet
across. Because the fencing is four feet wide, when stood on end it made a
four-foot-tall cage for the potato tower.

We decided to place it in one corner of the garden
area where it will get full sun. Although the online instructions told us to
fill the tower with non-manure compost (without explaining why), I chose to use
growing material we had on hand: Canadian peat, some bagged planting mix, and
dead leaves. We also had a couple of bales of straw in the shed to replenish
the bedding in our chicken house and nesting boxes.

Fortunately, my hands are small enough to fit through
the wire mesh, making it easier to line the cage with hanks of straw, going
about a foot up from the ground. Then I dropped in a thick layer of dead
leaves, topped by enough mixed peat and soil to come to the top of the straw.
The day before, I’d cut russet seed potatoes into chunks, leaving at least two
eyes on each, and allowed them to “callous” overnight – a precaution against
inviting blight. Eight of these chunks went around the perimeter of the dirt
layer, just inside the straw lining, eyes pointed outward.

Then I lined another few inches of the cage with
straw, and repeated the procedure, again and again, until the cage was full and
tower was complete. The last layer was different only in that I added three
extra seed potato chunks in the middle of the circle, which will sprout and
grow upwards, while runners – and their attached new potatoes – will grow down
into the interior of the tower.

In all I planted nine pounds of seed potatoes – four
of russets and five of Yukon gold. If all goes well, what comes out of the
tower, properly stored, should meet our needs for much of the fall and winter.

And as a bonus, it will have happened on just two
square feet of ground at one corner of our gardens. That’s economy, times two.

(If you’re inclined to read more about our
homesteading life on Shuddering Squirrel Acres in the hills of Middle
Tennessee, kindly check out my other blog, “I’m Mildly Concerned that
One of My Hens is a Rooster…”
and poke around in the archives.)

Photos by Ric Bohy