Last time, I wrote about my sordid history with corn (I know...riveting). Part of the reason I brought it up was a story my dad told me recently. It was about his own battle with the yellow stuff, and like mine it occurred in his fourteenth year.
When my dad was fourteen, it was 1950 and he lived in rural Indiana. Like, WAY rural. His personal corn hell started when he was given charge of some gargantuan farm vehicle whose purpose was to transport corn from hither to thither. It wasn't just a truck, but it wasn't a combine...some sort of satanic hybrid. Whatever it was, no doubt the current version is air conditioned, has a dock for iphones and -pods, and is probably driven only by people who have lost all of their baby teeth.
Anyway, Dad had to drive this monster a goodly distance, and in the process made a turn and lost a ton of the ears of corn in a ditch. He was hoping to unload the stuff at its destination and be done with it, but alas, some conscientious passerby had seen the ditch incident and bothered to drive on to the farmer and report what had happened. Hater!
The result was that Dad had to drive back to the offending ditch and literally shovel ears of corn several feet into the air and into the satan-mobile.
Regardless of the differences between our beliefs and worldviews, this is how my father is also my soul brother...we have fought the fight...we are the children of the corn.
And I solemnly swear to whatever god you believe in...I will never mention corn in this blog again. Cultivation managed.