Child of the Corn

Ok, I'm sick, so if this sucks, it's Seeker's fault, he made me post!

To many Native Americans, corn was sacred because it meant the difference between life and death. I always feel a deep reverence when I look at a corn field, when I walk through it. There's just something indescribably magical that happens this time of year; the corn is suddenly six feet high, with golden tassels waving in the breeze. The first thing you notice is the smell. There's a deep, sweet, earthy smell that comes off the fields. I always imagine that Heaven must smell like a corn field after a strong rain. There's a tranquil hush that falls over you in a corn field- you can hear the leaves whispering as you pass. All other sounds are distant, like in a dream. The first few rows in will deceive you with their coolness, because after you're in about six rows, where no breeze reaches, the heat becomes oppressive. At first, each corn stalk looks the same; each one a soldier standing at attention. On closer inspection, though, they are each as individual as soldiers. Their leaves are a rich, true green, rough on top and with edges that can inflict cuts to put paper to shame. Right now, the corn itself is tiny- like a baby cradled in the arms of those leaves for protection. Soon, though, almost overnight, the corn will grow. It will be fat and yellow, and it will provide another year of life to the family that has tended it from a seed. I guess in that way, farm families are not much different from the Native Peoples who lived here for centuries; a healthy crop means survival. It means their children will have food on the table and a roof over their heads. I don't know if any of you from other areas will understand the beauty and romance of this, but I was out at my parents' today and walked the field to see the tornado damage. I love the fields and the mud and even the tiny cuts on my face and hands from moving through that ocean of green. I hope all of you have someplace that makes you feel like the fields make me feel.