Corn: (n) a tall cereal plant having a jointed, solid stem and bearing the grain, seeds, or kernels on large ears.
I tried to get lost in America.
Although I visited every large city, there were occasions in my touring, travels and interaction with the populace that I purposely placed myself deeper and deeper into smaller and smaller regions.
It was enlightening.
It was invigorating to drive down a country road at twilight and not see a building taller than two stories for ten miles in any direction.
What I could never escape was corn.
I judged my tours by its growth.
I began each tour traveling when little, tiny green heads were barely popping out of the earth. Matter of fact, someone would have to point out that the “field over there” was corn, because it looked like a promising acre of weeds.
But it still didn’t look like much.
More travel, more little towns. More diners which surprised me with a particular delicacy that tickled my fancy.
The corn just kept growing.
Pretty soon you could make out tiny ears sprouting, getting ready to hear further instructions from Mother Nature.
And then—all at once—there were huge fields of it in all directions. Corn stalks blowing in the breeze, chock-full of magnificent cobs, ready for the munching.
It was delicious.
But it was also forewarning—the warmth in the air was soon to be replaced, and traveling gypsies like me needed to find warmer climates, and spend my time watching the oranges grow.