Standing at the edge of the field, the rows of corn towered over me, leafy green with a brilliant blue sky in the background. Cirrius clouds rode high in that sky. The wind passing over the field rustled the upper leaves on the corn stalks. Large ears of corn grew out of the lower stalks, their shiny cornsilk hair flowing down the outside of the cob. I took an ear of corn in my hand and turned back the tightly held leaves, looking to see if the the kernals towards the open end were ready, but no, they were still small and undeveloped. The corn was not yet ripe, not yet ready. Another few weeks left in the field will do.
I stood at the edge of the cornfield along with other child members of my family. We each faced our own empty row streaming down the field between the pin straight rows of towering cornstalks. Someone was going to give us a signal and at the signal we were to take off running. It’s easy for a child to get lost in a cornfield, especially a big one like this. I think that’s why, even though our minds were young, we knew to stick to one row. We could run and run and run in that one row, and no matter how far we went, we wouldn’t get lost.
The sun was shining and the heat was humid. In the cornfield it would be cool.
Someone yelled Go and we ran.
We ran and ran and ran.
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This particular memory is from a picnic at the Bachman farm.