We need rain.
My father spoke those words frequently during different summers. I recall riding frequently so many times with him in his pick-up. He always always drove slowly past his fields, looking into the rows of green corn. What he saw, I didn’t understand. Then.
Dad looked at the height and color of the stalks. He examined the size of the ears, the tassels, the silk.
Was the silk golden or was it already turning rust?
Were the ears full around, or short and stunted?
Were the tassels tall and full, or were they sparse and drooping over?
The stalks—were they robust, strong, and green? Or had they turned yellow?
Was the silk golden or was it already turning rust?
Were the ears full around, or short and stunted?
Were the tassels tall and full, or were they sparse and drooping over?
The stalks—were they robust, strong, and green? Or had they turned yellow?
Dad never spoke much to anyone during those slow, oh so slow drives. He just looked.
Rain.
We need rain.
