Full of vim and vinegar, the eleven-year-old boy rushed into the kitchen just before lunchtime of a July day shouting with his full voice. Not only did we have a bumper crop of corn but, sad to say, a full murder of crows took up home within that marvelous crop. We all strove to do better in expectation of things to come.Īs anyone who knows anything about farming corn, where there are big plump kernels growing on tall green stalks, there are crows. ![]() I suppose the thought of that upcoming surprise made us proud of our work in the fields. Daddy proclaimed there would be a bumper crop and, if we did as well as he expected, he would give us a celebration we would long remember. The tiny ears that peeked out of each stalk grew plumper as the days strove toward the solstice. There was always a good jug of ginger water waiting for us if we should become overcome by thirst during our long days in the field.Īlong summertime, the cornstalks stood high as they reached up toward the sun. In the afternoons, momma would spread out a blanket in the green grass alongside the field and sit, while the baby, Maisie, played happily in the sunshine. ![]() Following behind the older Amberley offspring, Sally and Harold covered the kernels by pushing dirt over them with their feet and tramping it down. Andy, the eldest, drove the plow to turn up the land while the rest of us, May Belle, Janie, Tommy, Al and I walked behind dropping three kernels to each mound. Other than the old man, not a single hand was idle in our household.įrom sunrise to set of sun, we worked those fields of corn. At the ripe old age of six, we were put into the fields to work. From toddler years until we were about six years of age, we were Grandpa’s constant companion. How we hung on his knee as he told of the doings in his time. Daddy took over when the old man took to his rocking chair in the nook by the fireplace to tell stories of olden days to us young folk. Grandpa worked the fields until he could work them no more. Corn, acre upon acre of corn grew on our land. The Amberley’s had once made a name for themselves in the small farming community outside Bentley, Kansas. All the old memories had been stripped away by vandals who chanced the evil reputation given to my old home by the events that forced us to move away. I walked straight in to behold a horror of pealing wallpaper, threadbare carpets but no furnishings. ![]() Held on by only one rusty hinge, the screen door hung at a slant behind it the storm door was gone. The swing we sat on with our girlfriends was a derelict pile of rotten boards in a heap in the corner. That one small sound in the night let momma know we had come home safely from carousing with the fellows down at the Dew Drop Inn. Yes, the rickety porch step still creaked in the same place when I put my foot to it. Parking the old Ford in the dooryard, I couldn’t resist the urge to take a final survey of what was left of the happy existence of my long-forgotten youth. Paint flaked down to bare boards and its shutters hanging haphazardly from broken windows, the place had the look of sadness about it. To be truthful, it gave my heart a great deal of pain to see it as it is. ![]() Late yesterday afternoon, my path took me past the old homestead.
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