And the Corn Grows Tall

Donna Poole

“Donna,” my friend Gina Bradstreet asked, “did you make this cherry pie?”

“I did.”

It wasn’t an unusual question. At our country church potlucks, crowded together in our one-room schoolhouse fellowship hall, someone is always asking who made what, either to get the recipe or to remind themselves not to eat that person’s food again!

“But, umm, is it a homemade pie?”

“The crust is Mom Poole’s recipe, and she got it from Mrs. Boles. We always call it Mrs. Boles’ pie crust. Do you want the recipe?”

“Well, no. The crust is very good! But did you make the filling?”

“No. I bought the can of cherry pie filling.”

“Oh, good! If you made it yourself, I wasn’t going to tell you. I got a pit!”

We looked at each other and laughed.

How much laughter did we share through the years? There were tears when Dan, Gina, and family moved to South Carolina, and joy of family homecomings whenever they returned for visits.

So much has changed in our years at the Corners. John and I talked about it on an early evening slow drive, dirt road style, around a few blocks. We headed down the church road, corn tall in the fields, bordered with wildflowers. The slant of the sun felt nostalgic; life is passing so fast, as it has for generations.

We passed Anna May’s house. “It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.”

John nodded and looked at the house across from hers. “And they live in Missouri now.”

We took a left where two dirt roads meet and stopped to see the progress on the cement work. The new church addition is coming along nicely.

I looked over at the house across from the church. A nice couple lives there now, but I thought of Lloyd Eff whose house it was long ago. Lloyd lived a long time; he bought a new truck when he was one-hundred years old! He was a Catholic man, but left instructions when he died that he wanted “the Baptist preacher to have my funeral.”

John did officiate Lloyd’s funeral. We miss him and so many others who have gone on.

We continued down the road marveling at how fast the corn is growing.

“When did they take down Laser’s barn?”

I didn’t know the answer. Of course, no Lasers have lived there for many years, but we still call it the Laser place.

Heading home, John turned onto a paved road. “Well look at that. They took Dottie’s barn down too.”

I chuckled. “They wouldn’t have done that if she’d still been alive. I think she’d have had something to say about it.”

We smiled at each other, remembering Dottie. Remembering so many others.

We passed the memorial to the Potawatomi on Squawfield Road. They too farmed these fields in their time and now are a wisp of memory in the clouds.

And yet, the corn grows tall and sways in the evening breeze. The ears are getting full; they’d be fuller if we’d had more rain. The silks are still light. Cicadas are singing now. The old timers always said that means only six weeks until frost.

We pulled into the driveway of our farmhouse, and I looked across the road. The once open fields are dotted with homes now. Change is everywhere, and change is nowhere.

Bradstreets are up for a rare weekend visit from South Carolina. In a recent text, Gina asked how I was feeling.

“If chemo is a piece of cake, next time I’m ordering pie.”

She texted back a smiling emoji and a pie.

“Oh, is that cherry pie?”

“It’s cherry if you want it to be.”

I had a few good hours Friday afternoon, and Gina came for a yard visit. I’m not allowed any close social interaction. We looked at each other’s faces and started crying. They were tears of joy.

Gina handed John a warm cherry pie. “This is for Donna.”

We talked of Gina’s cancer survival and of fun times past. The birds sang sleepy songs, and our giant gnarled trees, old as the Potawatomi, sheltered us with deep shade. The cicadas murmured their ancient songs, and the corn grew tall.

“And now abideth faith, hope, and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” –I Corinthians 13:13

• 

• 

•