The Cult of the Corn

 

The Cult of the Corn

Dr. Linda Karges-Bone

 

            Every summer, I swear that I will be able to resist it. The golden color. The sensual crunch. The alluring flavor. The Charpia Corn.

            I want to turn away. Yet each June, when the flag is raised, that distinctive white tarp on Highway 17-A, not far from the fireworks stand, I find myself drawn, unable to stay away. Unable to control my passion. For the Charpia Corn.

            What makes it so unique? Isn’t it simply an ear of Silver Queen Corn? Why can’t I settle for the perfectly serviceable fresh corn from the local stands or even the Pig? Why must I wait in line, sometimes without luck…for my two-bag limit of Charpia Corn?

            At least I know that I am not alone in my addiction and my annual quest. The wooden board announces: “Corn Tomorrow. 10:00” and the faithful will begin lining up at least an hour early. With their lawn chairs, coffee mugs, flip flops, and fistfuls of cash, the faithful wait in hope of Charpia Corn.

            I wait too. Most mornings, I am the youngest in line, and at age 50 ( just so), that is something. They tell me that they have waited in this line every summer for years, and I believe them. I, too, have waited as long as I can recall. It is my wifely duty. I owe it to my poor, long-suffering Southern husband. It is my penance for serving him “Deer Corn” when I was a bride some 30 years ago. How was I to know that “Deer Corn” or “Pig Corn” was actually meant for farm and field? I thought it was pretty, with the rows of hard, yellow kernels. I thought I had done a good thing, getting cheap, fresh produce for my hard-working engineer husband. I should have known something was amiss when the older gentleman behind the counter choked on his chewing tobacco as I announced that I was going right home to boil some up for my husband’s dinner. 

            “You do that,” he said, grinning. I’ll bet a kind Charpia farmer would have set me straight, before my husband almost broke a tooth on Deer Corn. Now, I wait every day in the summer heat….for my payback Charpia Corn.

            I am training my daughters to know the secrets of standing in line for the best corn in the South, maybe in the world. My younger girl is home from college this summer, getting ready for graduate school at Duke.  I gave her the $7.00 for two plastic bags, the quota, and sent her with orders to be early. She had thought that I was kidding about the seriousness of this corn business. She learned. Nobody fools around with the Charpia Corn.

            “They are crazy!” she announced, when she came home an hour later. “An old lady about knocked me over, thinking that the corn was almost out. I couldn’t believe all those people, terrified that the corn would be “done” and they wouldn’t  get any . Can’t they just go to the grocery store?” she asked.  “Not for Charpia Corn,” I reminded her.

            Today was the last day, the 4^th of July. It is something of a tradition, I think. How fitting, that one can be free to grow, and sell, and buy something so wonderful in the USA. Just 11 months to go until we see the tarp go up again on 17-A.  Perhaps I’ll be stronger next year and won’t waste hours of time in the heat, and sun, and dust…..waiting for two bags of corn. Maybe I’ll just drive by and laugh at the folks in line, craning their necks to see if the truck still holds a bag or two for them. If the Karma is good, I will summon all my energy and turn away from the Cult that holds me in its strong bonds……and be able to resist…the Charpia Corn.

 

The Charpia Family has been growing Silver Queen corn and other good things for many years. They are lovely people. This satirical essay is meant as a tribute.

Staying in Touch……from Far Away

I just returned from a two week “adventure” in Europe. As the leader of a group of 28 educators, including teachers, nurses, and speech therapists, trekking through Italy, France, and on to Amsterdam, there was precious little time for introspection. Yes, I did ponder the nature of man and the nearness of God in the great cathedrals and galleries, but something closer at hand really caught my mind and my heart.

I noted, in Italy especially, that folks do not spend their time, their energy, or their lives tethered to cell phones, blue tooths , or is that blueteeth, or blackberries. They actually talk to one another, look at the blue sky and sea, and eat fresh blackberries from street markets. I am serious. For the first time in years, I saw couples, young and dare I say, older, holding hands, nuzzling affectionately, and engaging in enthusiastic, even playful conversation.

Unhooked from technology, couples and friends seem to hook up with one another, and not simply in the sexual way in which we apply the  term.

At lunch tables, couples go eye to eye and talk. On the street, couples stroll hand in hand and stop to kiss. On bicycles and trams, friends laugh and talk, not text. I liked it. A lot.

I’m sure the Italians, and French and Dutch have plenty of access to technology, but for some reason, they do not feel the need to “twitter” in the cold void of cyberspace when they can hold hands or kiss in the warm summer sunshine.  Fascinating.

So, mea culpa if I turn off my cell phone for a few hours and have lunch with my husband or bike with my sister, or sip coffee with my daughter. I’m  home from Europe with a gift more precious than gold jewelry from Florence, the promise of staying in touch with those I love…. a lesson brought home from far away.

50 is the New 30….Believe It

It used to be a cute message on a tote bag or the title of some trite chick lit piece in a glossy magazine, but now it is has meaning. Now it is real. I turned 50 this week. Unlike some of my friends who struggled with depression, anxiety, anger, and confusion during the BIG Five OHHHHH, I feel really jazzed. Just my eternal optimism and St. John’s Wort? Perhaps. Or something more spiritual, more existential? I think so.

I’m not naive. I know that a big chunk of my life is probably over. I am in the middle of age and that doesn’t bother me. I like knowing a few things. These are some things, that the goddess Oprah says…”I know for sure”…..

1. Every moment I spend with my husband and children is precious.

2. Giving someone your time and attention is a gift and should be treated as such, by me and by them.

3. Faith is a choice and a necessity.

4. Optimism begets optimism. Energy grows exponentially. Unfortunately, pessimism and  depression behave in the same fashion. I choose to live with the glass half full.

5. Robert Frost’s poem about the two roads diverging in the yellow wood makes more sense than ever. I am still on that less traveled path and still trying to make a difference.

Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jog

I took the Red Eye from LAX this morning. That is, leaving at 9:30 pm LA time and arriving at 9:30 am SC time, the next day. Today. And my 49 year old face shows it. There is no amount of pricey Airbonne toner that can effectively refresh this tired visage. But, I don’t care. In spite of the fatigue and furor of air travel, I do like to get out and go. I like packing the little black rolling bag. I like picking out my Chico’s indestructible, uncrushable travel wear ( blue or black) with some spiffy bangles. I like packing the enormous airline tote bag with magazines, protein bars, dollar bills for tipping, and about 5 pounds of other stuff. I like seeing my old and new friends when I return to a school district to consult or to a conference to keynote. The energy is good. I don’t know all their secrets and they don’t know mine. We are all friendly and professional and on our best behavior for 48 hours and in a way, it is restful. I even like taking a taxi. Why? Because, as my daughter Carolyn the astute new attorney notes: “You don’t HAVE to talk to anyone…..but no, that probably wouldn’t stop you would it?” Haaaa. Fooled you. I sat in quiet retrospection for 30 minutes on the LA freeway on Sunday……thinking…..just thinking…..and it was good. But, now I’m home. Thanks to Delta and Air Tran and the Good Lord. Three loads of laundry and lunch with my sweetie. Also good. Home again. Home again. Jiggity jog. Did I mention that I made plane reservations for Orlando and DC before I took a nap? Can’t let my “skills” as the great Napoleon Dynamite says…..get rusty.

Care Package for the Soul

I come from a big Italian family. My four siblings and I have produced 13 children between us and when all the children were little, it was crazy in a good kind of way. Christmas meant piles of crinkled paper, high chairs lined up in a row,  5 pounds of cooked pasta and meatballs, toddlers pushing baby doll strollers, toddlers in strollers, babies napping in carriers, and little boys crawling around playing with trucks and legos. My nephew Clint is one of “the boys” and probably the toughest one. It is no surprise that he is now a Corporal in the Marine Corps who shipped out to Iraq in January. He’s already been under fire and hurt, but bounced right back, much as he used to when he was little and would fall off his bicycle or skates and stubbornly refuse to come inside and “play nicely” with all those pesky girl cousins. My sister and I created a care package for him a few weeks ago, layering tuna snack packs. wet wipes, batteries, cookies, and magazines in careful rows. Aunt Annie cushioned it all with loose handfuls of his favorite hard candies and gum, saying that he could share it all with his buddies in the tent or the tank or on patrol…..whatever it is that tough Marines do in a war zone. She had tears in her eyes when she said it. My students at the university signed a big poster for him and we folded it on top. “We appreciate your service.” “We love you.” “Thank you for protecting our freedom.” Pretty young co-eds, girls whom he might be dating if he were in college instead of at war penned inspirational messages. They really care. His aunts and I care. His mama and daddy care. His grandma is terrified. It was so much easier to negotiate danger when it meant keeping him out of the street when he would chase balls, or out of the doghouse when he would crawl in after our beagle, or out of the cookie jar when he would sneak Oreos. Oh yes, there were Oreos in the package too. I made sure of that. We care about you “Cutest Boy” and  hope to hear soon that you got the package and that it and you are safe.