Fields of Memories

I love this time of the year. Driving down the road with the corn fields beginning to tassel, the (few) oats fields turning brown as they ripen for the harvest, the fresh-mowed hay lying in neat windrows, and the bean fields covering the ground with their lush green bushes -- it is impossible to miss the abundant love of God surrounding us.

As a youngster, this was the season when I began to work on the farm with my uncles and grandpa. At age 10, I began to drive the tractor on the bundle wagons as the neighbors gathered together to thresh the oats. We young boys would steer the tractors between the rows of shocked oats as the men pitched the bundles into the hay racks. Then, when the rack was full, we would pull up to the threshing machine where the men would pitch them into the feeder. Sometimes, when we stopped for lunch or dinner, while the men were resting, we boys would be engaged in various forms of entertainment. It was not unknown that a simple drink of water could turn into a cooling water fight. Those among us who were a little more mischievous would climb up on one of the racks and tie some of the bundles together. This would make it very difficult, if not impossible for the man whose load it was to pitch them into the threshing machine. It was a carefree time with no concerns or worries beyond the fun of the day.

In later years, I worked with those same uncles in their hybrid seed corn fields. This was the season to bring in the detasseling crews to pull the tassels from the female rows so that the cross pollination could happen. Teenage boys and girls from the surrounding area would walk up and down the rows yanking out all the tassels in the assigned rows. It was my first lesson in the work ethic. I discovered that some people were hard workers, efficient and steady, while others either could not see the tassels or chose to overlook them. I remember especially one character whose nickname was "Blackie" (not because of any racial implications. After all, we were all white kids who had never encountered a black person.) who pulled tassels all the way across the field, carrying them all with him as he went. When he reached the far end of the field, he laid them all out on the ground making himself a comfortable bed, and proceeded to take a long nap. When we finally found him several hours later, he was given an early ride home.

It was a season of first loves. Many of the female detasslers stole my heart as I fell head over heels for them, at least for a week or two. Some of them even paid special attention to this young town-kid-in-the-country.

Every small town in the area had a men's fast pitch softball team. Once or twice each week we would attend the local game. At the end of the season, there would be a celebration for the team and all the followers. The menu would be bushels of cooked corn-on-the-cob, a big cauldron of melted butter, and lots of beer. If one was old enough to pronounce the name of a beer, it could be had.

All these memories, and more, come to mind now as I drive past the fields in all their verdant beauty. After being away from Iowa for the last 15 years, the rolling elegance of the abundant crops assures me that life goes on. Generations come and go. People live and die. But God continues to bless our land and the people who tend it. God's faithfulness is evident to those who have eyes to see. And hearts to be grateful.