#corn blog

[cult-of-the-corn]

Sir I’m just tending to my fields,,

[ask-me-about-my-corn-blog]

      Hello Tumblr Dot Com! Thank you so much for welcoming me with open arms into your corn blog community. I am humbled and proud to be part of such an amazing group of corn bloggers. I am going to start off my corn blog with a short vignette of one of my earliest memories of corn.       When I was a kid I used to spend most fall weekends in the rural corn fields of Virginia dove hunting. My father, grandfather, brother and I would drive for what felt like hours through back country roads to find the perfect ditch to set up in. We usually ended up at a farm that belonged to a friend of my grandfather, especially if their corn fields had been freshly cut. The mornings usually consisted of my brother and me fighting over who got the good chair, as we were always one short and one of us would be stuck with an upside-down bucket. My grandfather would try to sneak beers to the kids (miller high life at that point, though he later became a budweiser man) if he hadn’t already polished them off on the drive.       There were a lot of rules that my grandfather refused to follow. I never saw the man buckle his seatbelt. He always had a beer in his hand while riding in the car and refused to lower it when passing by police. He grew up in the same neighborhood where his children and grandchildren now lived. He didn’t have to drive anywhere when he wanted to go hunting as a child–his back yard worked just fine. He was a wonderful human being by most accounts.       When I was too young to participate in killing things I would spend most of the day playing with corn. I made corn kernel art in the dirt. I filled empty shotgun shells with corn and threw them at my brother. I explored uncut fields of corn, which in retrospect was probably not all that safe. I would throw corn cobs at the doves to try to kill them. It did not work. I was not very good at hunting.       When we were done killing things we would take the things that we had killed back to my grandfather’s house to pluck out their feathers and clean them. I would show my mom the corn art that I had made. She was always proud of it.       The things that we had killed had all checked off the last box in their contract with life. The one that says that to live you must eventually die. Most of the people that I used to hunt with have checked off that box as well. I always get it wrong when I call something ironic, but it was something like that. I was probably too young and naive to fully grasp the whole killing things bit, but I truly appreciate the chance it gave me to connect and spend time with the patriarchs of my family. And corn. That is my story. Ask me about my corn blog.

[ask-me-about-my-corn-blog]

Ask me about my corn blog.

[corn-e]

Corn hell notes

[thebestcornblog]

when corn gets a cold, its voice gets a little…….husky

[thebestcornblog]

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[thisblogshucks]

[thebestcornblog]