B4~LaMwtar Farming,- Saturday, August 15,. 1
*s.
-*C
i*|
On being * **
a farm
-And other
hazards
Joyce Bupp
Multiple alternatives had been
considered.
I could pretend that no one had
told me the com was ready. Or, I
could just make out that I’d forgot
ten about this patch of com having
been planted. Other jobs could be
deemed more important than put
ting away com. Besides, there was
still com in the freezer from last
year.
The “squirrel-ly” genes in my
makeup took over.
“How would you like to help me
pull that com?” I sweetly smiled to
the farmer shortly before lunch on
yet another of those sticky, humid,
no-breeze days which have typi
fied this stifling summer.
“How about if I pull the com
while you get lunch ready?” he
countered, offering the proposal
I’d been hoping for. Lunch was to
be what else? com-on-lhe
cob, from a small batch which had
been yanked from the patch the
evening before to check how soon
it would reach harvest peak.
What we keep forgetting is how
the heat has hastened ripening of
all the vegetable crops. Not only
was the sweet com ready, it had
reached the panic point for pulling.
“Don’t over do it,” I hollered as
he headed toward the pickup.
Experience has taught me that his
pickings of com which look small
on a truck bed grow instantly from
a mole hill into a mountain when
dumped by the porch for
processing.
“Gee, that’s more than I thought
it was,” was his comment soon
after, as a stream of green flashed
from th.e truck bed to the back yard.
A “see ya’ later” floated back from
the cloud of dust as he headed out
for the hayfield, leaving me to do
battle in solitude with the umpteen
dozen ears.
Maybe not such solitude. With
in moments of yanking back the
first leaves and exposing tender,
young, creamy kernels, at least a
dozen flies arrived. Monkey,
mother of seven lively offspring,
took refuge from the rigors of kit
ten raising, sprawling out inches
from my elbow. And a flock of
four timid, nearly-grown, addition
to the chicken population edged
their way toward the scent of com.
One side benefit of “doing” com
is that it busies the hands, but
leaves the mind free to wander.
Through the shimmering haze
hanging over the meadow came
part of the heifer herd, puttering
their way through the straggly
grass of the dry pasture. Overhead,
a scattering of barn pigeons
debated the worth of foraging
through the dusty ground of the
new sod waterway. Third cutting
of hay in the bottom ground hinted
at purple blooms, and the rose bed
poked healthy mid-season growth
and blooms above the border of
impatiens and wax begonias.
Several more dozen flies arrived
by the time a credible dent showed
in the pile and containers bulged
with fat ears. Not a breath of air
stirred in this spot sheltered by the
house.
Ah, but up on the front porch, a
breeze nearly always floats
through. Leaving the husks, the cat
and, hopefully, the flies, I relo
cated this com processing proce
dure to finish the brushing and cut
ting from the cob steps.
Small wafts of warm, but wel
come, air stirred. A couple of fat,
old roosters sized up the operation,
sneaking into peck at stray kernels
each time I left to check com
already simmering. A few flies
tracked down the new location.
Our faithful paper delivery boy
cruised in on his bike, departing
with a dozen ears of com I conned
him into taking home. One more
dozen disposed of.
A chorus of summer insects
hummed from the trees. The
farmstead was silent, save for an
occasional bawling calf, and time
seemed to stand still. As I lopped
off the last kernels from the last
ear, one brave rooster chattered
over a stray cob.
Just as the last kettle full was
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emptied, time came to put the cows
in for milking. Containers of com
filled every spare niche in the
freezer. And the flies scattered
from the party. One more messy
summer chore was history.
What looks like mundane plas-
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