The summer I was twenty, after a summer of counseling campers, I drove to Indiana with Paul, who lived there. We visited his family’s farm. In the cornfield, his father pulled an ear from its stalk, husked it, held it out to me. I took a bite. I remember how sweet it was, how perfect.
Mmm . . . I remember too. I also remember the occasional perfect little worm burrowed into the kernels.ReplyDelete
I love and am terrified of cornfields!ReplyDelete
Farmers love it when city folk visit.ReplyDelete