WIDE MEADWOS: A CONTINUING SERIES; CHAPTER 2: GATHERING THE CORN: JOB OF TOIL, SWEAT ENDS WITH FUN

Editor's note: This is a chapter from Jean Bell Mosley's book "Wide Meadows" that was first published in 1960.

All the other harvesting efforts pale in stature in comparison with the gathering of the corn. Now we are getting down to business. This is the stuff which will fatten our hogs and feed our chickens and mules, and make nice dents in our debts.

Much of the corn has not been shocked, so down the brown rows we go, scattering bits of stalks and loose shucks right and left, and heaving the fat ears high so that they beat a lively tattoo on the bangboard of the wagon and bounce into the deep bed. We love the good, solid feel of the corn.

"Looka here!" Dad yells, and holds up a fine big ear almost as long as his forearm. We make suitable sounds of acclamation and try to find a bigger one. These finer ears are put away for seed.

Huge flocks of migrating blackbirds alight in the field ahead of us, protesting our coming in squeaky voices. Old crows, from high perches, look down at our operation with wary eyes. "Caw, caw, caw," they cry, in only partial defeat, already casting appraising looks on the adjoining winter wheat field beginning to show green.

Old Shep, matted with cockleburs and laced with begger's-lice, strolls up and down the rows, smelling at suspicious hummocks and digging at likely-looking holes. A cottontail springs out from under his very nose and off they go, likety-split, toward the sassafras thicket in the fence row.

Planted, prayed for rain

This is the culminating operation of many hours of sweat and toil. It seems long ago since that spring day when Dad crumbled a handful of dirt in his hand and then declared, at the supper table so all could hear, that the ground was ready for plowing. With such an announcement, the corn bread, beans, and potatoes were solemnly passed around again and everyone took a generous second helping, for from then on we'd need all the energy we could muster.

While the mellow bottom fields were being plowed and harrowed, we womenfolk shelled the big ears of corn into a tub and had the seed ready on time. We planted and prayed for rain. The green shoots came peeping through the ground and up went the blue-shirted, behatted, straw-stuffed scarecrow.

Then came the wild morning glories, cockleburs, and trumpet vines. Hoes were sharpened and muscles became sore. Those days we passed the corn bread, beans, and potatoes three times around.

Eventually the corn is "laid by," and we stand off and look at it appraisingly. "Just one more good rain before the tasseling," Grandpa implores. Up, up, up it goes, way above our heads, and the scarecrow, barely visible now, flaps its frazzled arms in applause.

With no hired hands it takes us about two weeks to gather the corn. If neighbor Ashton is not busy, he and Cabe, his son, will lend us a hand and we will pay him back some way. When the last ear is gathered, we take our places atop the big load for the ride to the crib. Grandpa tosses up the scarecrow and we plunge him deep into the corn so he will stand erect.

Plans for a husking party

There is a new note in Dad's "Giddap there, Maude." The horses seem to know the harvest is in as we make our laughing, bumping, jiggling, flapping way home.

"Let's have a husking party," Lou and I beg. It is to our advantage to do so, for the husking is our task.

We have never had such a party before, but we know the procedure -- flickering lantern light, cider and doughnuts, games and songs, and the occasional red ear! My heart flutters in anticipated mortification should my partner find a red ear of corn and I should thus be kissed publicly. But is not likely, for we seldom have a red ear any more.

"All right," Mama and Grandma agree, so Lou and I take the message to school and the date is set for a Friday night.

That day Mama gets out the big three-legged iron pot, lifts a lid on the stove, and fits the pot snugly into the opening. The best leaf lard, rendered separately, goes into the pot, and doughnut after doughnut is friend to a crisp golden brown until there is a whole mountain of them on the table when we come home from school. Every mug we can muster is washed and dried and carried to the corncrib. Grandpa has gone across the river to bargain for some cider from old Abe Adams, and now the jugs are standing in a row on a shelf in the crib. All is ready.

The neighbors arrive, some on horseback, some buggies, but many of them afoot. Most of the young girls and womenfolk have worn their husking gloves, but the menfolk prefer to work without such impediments.

First we draw numbers for partners and are paired off in odd couples. I have drawn Mr. Jack, the onetime hobo, for my partner. Lou has drawn bewhiskered old Mr. Crawford.

There are more men than women, so some volunteer to be "women" and pull off the dried corn silk to stick under their caps for long, curly hair. Others, more daring, roll their trouser legs to their knees, revealing knotty limbs sheathed in snug white underwear. There is much hooting and joking and joshing about the fitness of the transformation.

Harvest is complete

The first pair to reach a hundred ears is to receive a prize, and in this case it is to be two quarts bred-and-butter pickles. Everybody has bread-and-butter pickles at home, to be sure, but they were not won at the husking bee and therefore cannot be eaten with the accompanying memories of the good fellowship they had there, singing, working, and playing together.

A jovial mood prevails, for cellars and pantries and barns are full, the harvest is over, and God has seen us through another year.

"A-ha," Ray Stacey shouts as he holds aloft a fine red ear. His partner, Miss Mary, the schoolteacher, blushes outrageously, but offers her cheek, which Ray disregards and plants a kiss right on her pretty mouth. There are shouts and claps of approval. Someone starts up a song and all join in. Jeptha Alexander has brought his guitar, so he is excused from husking while he accompanies the rest of us in "Red Wing," "Froggie Went A-Courtin'," and "Sourwood Mountain."

Old Dobbin, in his stall, whinnies uneasily, and cowbells clang in protest at this invasion of the cattle's nocturnal privacy.

"Ha-hoo," Cabe Ashton shouts, and holds high another red ear. We all make signs and sounds of amazement that two red ears have been found. Cabe kisses his partner on the cheek and I die of jealousy, for Cabe is mine.

"Hot ziggety!" exclaims old man Crawford and Lou's eyes grow wide with alarm as he, too, holds aloft a red ear.

"What did you do, Wilson?" Plant a whole gallon of red seed so you'd get a kiss?" someone ribs Dad, but he only shakes his head in exaggerated bewilderment.

A red ear found

"Fine crop, Mr. Bell," the farmers say, judiciously, inspecting the plump, uniform ears. Dad replies, "Well, good growing season," and shrugs off all the hours of plowing, planting, cultivating, and harvesting, but that is the way of men of the soil. To them does not belong the glory, but to a higher being who provides the sunshine and rain in proper proportion.

Two more red ears are founds -- three, four -- seven, eight! Eight red ears, and all found by the menfolks! Women cluck their tongues at this strange circumstance.

Finally it is all shucked. Around go the refreshments again. Addie Stacey announces hog killing at her home for next Wednesday. Miss Mary says there will be a box supper next Friday at the schoolhouse. Lonnie Britt reminds Mrs. Ritter to send her the recipe for headcheese.

Next day at school Miss Mary asks to borrow a few of the red ears for a decoration she is planning for the box supper, so in the evening I hunt for them, high, and low, and middleways, but only one red ear can I find.

"Daddy, I can't find but one red ear," I say, as he sticks his head in the crib door at shore time.

"Well, for goodness sakes," he exclaims, and then brings his eyelid down in a prodigious wink.

"You mean there was only one?" I demand, trying to sound like outraged womanhood.

He nods his head, makes a hushing sound, and brings a peppermint from his pocket, which is a suitable silencing device.

I put the one red ear aside for Miss Mary. No doubt, after the box supper, there will be nothing left but the cob, for all the young boys will have filched a few grains to insure their "crop" for next year.

Next week: The silver spoon.