The root cellar we had in central Oregon (high desert climate) was dug into a hill. Only the north facing door was visable, reached by going down a few stairs between slanting hillsides. It was lined with stacked volcanic rock, angled slightly outward as the walls became higher. Before we moved there, the roof had collapsed, pretty much filling the space with dirt, logs and the remains of old boards. We cleaned it out, rebuilt the roof and used it for several years. An adult could stand upright easily in it. The floor was dirt, it had shelves along the sides and a box for potatoes at the end. And a good light in the ceeling with a switch right beside the door.
I went looking online for a book about root cellars. Instead I found a poem. The author either has a vivid imagination or memories of a poorly maintained root cellar.
Root Cellar by Theodore Roethke
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
I'll keep looking for that book.
