The kernels danced the full length of the Roy G. Biv scheme. They swung wide of the simple like dazzling gemstones whose hues ran from red to green to blue. They shone like precious minerals and glowed with a brilliance that was microscopic and amazing all in one. Within the length and circumference of a single ear, the hues hammered all of nature’s span.
They were ours, and they were beautiful.
The Old Man had planted a row of ornamental corn in his garden and, this time at least, the raccoons had left it alone. This happened before deer were as plentiful as mosquitoes so, if the raccoons missed it, a corn crop had a fair chance to make. They’d left his rows of regular sweet corn and his rows of field corn alone also. (Some folks preferred the earthy, unsweet option of field corn, fresh and natural, but still grounded in the soil we knew well.)
Maybe there had been a raccoon famine that had befallen the local population. Or maybe the Boy and his cohorts had interfered with enough of them in one way or another to make a difference. It’s hard to say. No matter the reason, the fact that the Boy and his friends had been equipped with .22 rifles the Christmas before seemed to coincide with an excellent corn crop in their immediate vicinity the following fall. Strange how that is given to occur.
Every stalk of corn sprouts from a single kernel, and each stalk produces one or, occasionally, two, ears apiece. In ornamental corn, the run of a single cob can contain a broad variety of colors. Within each kernel, in fact, there may be found quite a span of hues, ranging from the primary to the pastel and beyond.
“How can one kernel of corn planted in the ground produce a stalk that grows kernels in so many different colors?” I asked.
“Well, it’s multicolored corn,” the Old Man said. “That’s just what it does.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “but say, if the kernel you planted was red, why didn’t it make all red corn?”
“I don’t know how the genetics work, but it’s pretty interesting to see how intricate and fine individual kernels can be, turning out in different little patterns like they do.”
The ornamental corn had grown and been left to dry standing. The Old Man and I were tasked with collecting it and the stalks in such a way that both would be available for decorative purposes later in the fall.
The eating corn, as I called it, had long since been processed and put away. Both sweet and field had been shucked, cut and frozen for future use. A few ears of each had been boiled fresh, but most was saved for later. It was summertime and there were ample tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and more. No reason to cut into the corn haul meant for the coming winter.
The frazzled silks on the dried ornamental ears hung out from the end. I pulled a hank of these off of each ear, then peeled the shucks back to show the pretty kernels underneath. I did this with each ear on each stalk, then we pulled up the stalks with the ears still attached, stacking them on a trailer we pulled behind the Old Man’s truck.
I looked at an ear of the corn. There were kernels that were red and kernels that were blue, but there were also kernels that were intricate cornucopias of design, kernels that looked like dazzling gemstones, kernels that looked like compressed galaxies of stars and nebulae, kernels that spanned the breadth of anyone’s imagination of what nature might be able to be.
“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” the Old Man asked. “Life doesn’t have to be complex or complicated to be amazing. In fact, the simpler you let it be, the more amazement it’s likely to send your way.”
From a single kernel each new ear had grown, and the Old Man was right. The only way to avoid being amazed would be to ignore the amazing creation altogether.
Kevin Tate is a freelance writer. Email [email protected].
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