All around us, corn fields are being mown down. In years past, I would be in New Jersey at this time of year, back in the world of teaching and the happy, hectic life of Room 202. On the Fall weekends we were able to make it back to the farm. we’d take some note of the shorn fields, but our attention was focused on the glory of upstate New York foliage.
Starting this past Monday, a cold and rainy one at that, and continuing all week no matter the hour, every farmer for miles around has been busy slicing through fields of bronze and gold. More than once this week, I have followed one enormous truck after another, loaded down with silage bound for winter storage. I love watching plumes of green and gold confetti float off the tops of these trucks – the last vestiges of endless days of sunshine and heat.
All summer long I’ve woken and fallen asleep to the rustle of corn, and there is now a weird stillness to get used to. Summer never lasts as long as we wish for it to…
for Philip Hobsbaum