`CORNY' AMERICAN FINDS SOLACE IN THE FIELDS

If I want a little mini-vacation for myself, one that will leave me reassured that America is still on a steady foundation, give me a sense of security and erase from my mind, at least for a while, the horrible things that are going on in the big cities, all I have to do is drive by or walk through the corn fields of America.

To be enveloped by corn, the sturdy stalks of it, the drooping, spent tassels bending toward the ground now as if to direct our attention to the good soil whence it came, the big shucky ears of it still pointing upwards as if to silently remind us, too, of sunshine and rain is a benediction soft as the mist that hangs over the fields at eventide.

Recently I drove by corn fields in the counties north of here where the fields are smaller and sometimes separated by hay fields wherein lie the great, harvested rolls like forts behind which the corn, still green, stood in straight rows, a silent, massed army, hidden grenades in green pockets ready to explode hunger from the camps of many wherever it may be found.

But these northern fields are only platoons compared to the regiments of the Bootheel fields. A person could get lost in these patches that stretch as far as the eye can see. However, to sit a while in such a field and listen to the long leaves whisper against each other, the crickets fiddling their peaceful little songs, an old crow or two rejoicing over what is to come, one really couldn't get very panicky about being lost, might even revel in it. Who knows, an old' coon might come waddling down the row to sit near and keep you company. Beats water skiing and hang gliding for my generation.

I have long been on intimate terms with corn, putting the grains into the ground and covering them with the aid of a hoe where the corn planter missed a hill or two. Afterwards there came the hoeing and weeding and harvesting, shucking, shelling and grinding, all done with other family members helping, then feeding the harvest to the chickens, the pigs and whatever other livestock relished it, even the hounds. The hounds, of course, didn't eat it straight from the cob or even cracked. Being pedigreed, they were coddled. Every afternoon, summer and winter, Grandma or Mama would stir up a big blue crock full of cornbread batter, put it into a great black pan and thrust it into the oat oven. Golden and crusty, it was the backbone of our evening meal and leftovers were the mainstay of the dogs. We just didn't go so far as to butter it for the dogs. Dad's "nightcap" was a glass of buttermilk with cornbread crumbled into it. It's mine too sometimes, even though I know corn is used to fatten hogs!

Most old barns had corn bins or cribs built right into the main structure. Lots of times, when any of us had a passing emotional problem, we'd go to the corn crib and fasten the door from the inside. Somehow, lying in there, nestled amongst the lumpy, unshucked corn, things would get straightened out. Was it the security the corn offered? A full crib meant that all the family and "critters" would make it through another winter. Was it the pleasant, earthy odor made up of the papery shucks, the drying silks, the grain and cobs? Maybe it was knowing we had worked hard for the crop and were entitled to a little time-out. Perhaps it was all of these, plus the fact that across the hallway we could hear the muted sounds of the horses as they communicated in brown velvet voices, old Star's cowbell, the contented clucking of chickens, grunts of pigs. Maybe it was even the fact that our crop and our crib afforded food and sanctuary for the unintended such as the little mouse which was almost sure to come and discover us there. Neither party would be scared. The mouse might keep a beady eye on the occupant, but go right on gnawing on its favorite cob until appetite was satiated.

Back home from such a mini-vacation in or by a corn field, plus the reminiscence it inspired, I prepare my evening meal. Opening the cabinet door I see cornmeal, corn syrup, corn starch, corn flakes, a can of whole corn, creamed corn, and hominy, a jar of popcorn, a box of grits, a bottle of Mazola.

Just call me a corny Midwesterner. I don't mind. If it should be said derisively, I would reply, "I wish you had a corn crib to rest in a while and think."

REJOICE!