I am
walking through a cornfield. It's late fall and the ground is just tilled after
the harvest. The scent in the air is cornhusks, soil, and oil from the tractor
I was just driving. It idles while I stretch my legs and appreciate God's own
work.
It's the time of year when I wake up to a bone-freezing chill and put on layers of clothes. By the afternoon, I'm down to a baseball cap, long sleeve shirt, blue jeans, and steel-toed work boots to keep cool. The evening comes quickly and my favorite Iowa State hooded sweatshirt keeps the cold at bay.
The fresh turned soil pulls my heavy boots down, making every step an effort. I'm walking towards the terrace where the wind blows the long grass, making me imagine the open prairie that was originally here. Maybe there were buffalo once cresting these gentle hills, and geese flying in V-formation in the sky like they do now.
The scenery moves me as it always has: white cotton ball clouds moving steadily west to east across the sky as if to war, the miles of fields being prepped for the winter by men who know and love this land better than I ever will.
They've put blood, sweat, and tears into this land. The previous generations have made it easier for each of us who came after. The work still wears down our bodies and takes its toll, but not quite like it used to. Back-breaking work developed this farm so we could continue it and put in effort to make it our own. My family, including myself, has done much to make this as much ours as any who came before us.
I kneel and pick up a hand full of the rich, dark soil, letting it sift through my fingers. It gives me strength in the knowledge that it will be here and taken care of regardless of the next time I see home. I know this is home, but I've always had an urge to travel further and experience more.
I raise my eyes to the west where the sun is sinking down under the horizon, calling an end to another long day. The sky has changed to a myriad of colors: yellows, reds, purples and oranges. The eastern sky darkens earlier each day and brings with it the first clear and bright stars that I know so well. I return to the tractor and climb back in so I can turn it off for the night.
It's parked and resting near the end rows where I'll start in the morning, after the hog chores are finished that is. I climb into my Papa Dwaine's work truck with that familiar and comforting scent. He started this farm from money he saved while in the Army in Korea. And now, I will soon leave to begin my military journey. I look back one last time and pray that it doesn't change too much while I'm gone. This memory will have to sustain me for a bit until I come home again. It might be a while.
It's the time of year when I wake up to a bone-freezing chill and put on layers of clothes. By the afternoon, I'm down to a baseball cap, long sleeve shirt, blue jeans, and steel-toed work boots to keep cool. The evening comes quickly and my favorite Iowa State hooded sweatshirt keeps the cold at bay.
The fresh turned soil pulls my heavy boots down, making every step an effort. I'm walking towards the terrace where the wind blows the long grass, making me imagine the open prairie that was originally here. Maybe there were buffalo once cresting these gentle hills, and geese flying in V-formation in the sky like they do now.
The scenery moves me as it always has: white cotton ball clouds moving steadily west to east across the sky as if to war, the miles of fields being prepped for the winter by men who know and love this land better than I ever will.
They've put blood, sweat, and tears into this land. The previous generations have made it easier for each of us who came after. The work still wears down our bodies and takes its toll, but not quite like it used to. Back-breaking work developed this farm so we could continue it and put in effort to make it our own. My family, including myself, has done much to make this as much ours as any who came before us.
I kneel and pick up a hand full of the rich, dark soil, letting it sift through my fingers. It gives me strength in the knowledge that it will be here and taken care of regardless of the next time I see home. I know this is home, but I've always had an urge to travel further and experience more.
I raise my eyes to the west where the sun is sinking down under the horizon, calling an end to another long day. The sky has changed to a myriad of colors: yellows, reds, purples and oranges. The eastern sky darkens earlier each day and brings with it the first clear and bright stars that I know so well. I return to the tractor and climb back in so I can turn it off for the night.
It's parked and resting near the end rows where I'll start in the morning, after the hog chores are finished that is. I climb into my Papa Dwaine's work truck with that familiar and comforting scent. He started this farm from money he saved while in the Army in Korea. And now, I will soon leave to begin my military journey. I look back one last time and pray that it doesn't change too much while I'm gone. This memory will have to sustain me for a bit until I come home again. It might be a while.
