Sea of Corn
When I moved to Vancouver five years ago, I never expected what I'd miss most about the Midwest is the thunderstorms. As I live in what's commonly called "Raincouver," it didn't seem like that would ever be an issue, but there's hardly ever a good old thunder and lightning storm here. It's mostly just a pathetic grey drizzle that's hardly worth a second glance.
Summer storms in the Midwest are better than TV and I loved sitting on the front porch with my dad and sisters, watching and waiting for the show. The blue sky would drain away and huge clouds began to gather and menace in the distance. Everything was hot, humid and still. Then came the sound of rain pattering down on the corn stalks like millions of little kitten feet followed by a strong, cool breeze. Lightning raced across the sky, thunder rattled through our bones, and we'd stick our hands out from the safety of the roof to feel the raindrops splash on our skin.
Growing up on a farm surrounded by the corn was a bit like living on an island. We went about our lives in what felt like total isolation, all sights and sounds muffled by a sea of corn. It could be extremely lonely sometimes and our games were often influenced by a crazed cabin fever. The wind would make the corn ripple and crash just like waves and I used to climb high in the trees as if they were masts of a ship, to see over the swaying leaves.
Ever since my parent's sold the house I've been indulging in childhood memories – my pink bedroom, our dog Julie, epic games of kick the can, the smell of wet soil, the silence, the brightness of the stars, the endless sky, the freedom, and especially the corn.