We were the children of the corn that summer, but not in the Stephen King sense. We spent our days among the crops grown by our aunt’s friendly neighbor, building into their towering green games of hide and seek and army men. We counted the rabbits who cooled themselves in the shade there as our friends. Careful not to disturb the plants or their produce, we frightened away the crows that ever plague agricultural pursuits with our youthful cries of enthusiasm, so the farmer did not mind our presence.
Magic resided in the field. Janie experienced romance after she slipped in the moist earthen trails between the cornstalks. While helping her up, Johnnie brushing her blushing cheek with a bold kiss. Neither of them talked about it after, but they could not cease staring at each other the rest of the year. The corn seemed customized for little people to wiggle through the starch-straight stalks, their long green leaves flopping in warm, encouraging breezes. We learned to cooperate and still find the confidence of independence.
When the corn was harvested and the night crept over our daylight sooner than we wished, our parents came to collect us in preparation for school. A huge bonfire was set, and we roasted marshmallows, hotdogs, and, of course, corn. Each golden bite burst in our mouths, butter slicking our chins, as we listened to ghost stories and family histories. We pretended that the night would never have a dawn, reluctant to give up our summer as children of the corn.
Kerry E.B. Black tells tales fantastic and true from a little cottage along a foggy river in Pennsylania, USA. Please follow the author @BlackKerryblick and www.facebook.com/authorKerryE.B.Black