Sweet Corn Season

Its’ mid-Summer in Southwest Michigan, the heat has settled into the days. One after another, until our bodies regulate. We thank the Lord its only 92 degrees – instead of the triple digit forecast.  The garden sits below the hill basking in the sun, drinking up every last drop of the sprinkler, while our sweet corn patch grows in the field out yonder. The sweet corn envies the garden; it has to wait for the clouds to bring a drink. Time ticks slowly as we all wait for enough of that pure Michigan H2O to pump up those last few kernels on the stalk. 

Once the ears blossom, some towards the top of our foreheads, we can finally fill the truck bed with the first pick. The kids run to the roadside to showoff the new signs.  Its’ finally time. Time to welcome the sweet treat to our plates alongside grilled meat, because we all know its’ way too hot to turn on the oven. As I pile the green leaves topped with the finest silk hairs on the table, I reminisce about the good ol’ days.  

I see myself turning up the dial on our pink radio, adjusting the antenna just so, until I scream when I hear Shania Twain blast through the tiny speakers.  I start to wiggle as my sisters start to sing.  One grabs the broom to dance and sweep up the fallen corn leaves from the stand, because my mom said people like to shop where its’ clean.  Another grabs the spray bottle full of fresh water to soak the ears of corn laying on the hot table.  I pick up the plastic pale that used to hold our ice cream from the Schwann’s man; I shake it just enough to hear the coins rattle. And there we sit with nowhere to go, but to serve the next person who pulls into the driveway. 

My brother and Mom pull up in the red Kawasaki Mule to unload the latest pick of the day, just enough to get us through with a few dozen left past 6pm.  Dad hops down from the John Deere tractor after seeing a parked car, and settles into the blue and white webbed lawn chair for a nice long chat.

We lived for this season. Hours in the farmstand, knowing all the quarters collected in that plastic pail added up to a new pair of jeans just in time for school to start.

Flash forward 30 years, and here I stand - in the exact same spot. I hold the same variety of corn grown in the 90s, with the same hands that turned up that small pink radio’s dial. My hands look different now, with deep lines outlining a much longer reach, yet so much about this season remains unchanged. 

I still get excited for the very first customer. I still groove anytime Shania Twain hits those speakers. I still love, and now miss Schwann’s ice cream.  I still save those dollars, but now for my own kids’ jeans. But most importantly, I’m still so darn thankful that God created this land, and brings the rain to soak the leaves of the sweet corn, and brings the people that keep pulling into this driveway.