Corn is growing like magic. Can't see the rows anymore, like we did when it first sprouted out of the ground. Watching crops grow and the farmers tending to the crops will always be my fascination. The farming practices I knew as a little girl are obsolete. Today I'd be hard-pressed to identify the machinery that backs up traffic, as the owners lumber them from one of their farms to the other.
My mind still sees daddy patiently hitching up Barney and Daisy before heading up to his fields. Oh, eventually a John Deere put-putt tractor replaced his beloved horses. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still hear that putt-putt-putt.
In haying season, the four of us carefully watched the clouds and worked like crazy to get the hay raked, dried, and hoisted up into the hay mow before late afternoon rain storms. Mother Nature slyly held the trump card in Her hand, and She was known to play for keeps if She was in a bad mood. Many were our family prayer that She not flood or hail out our crops.
Like all kids who grew up on a farm in the 1950s, I have selective memory. Time has a paint brush that glosses over reality and shines it up to be prettier than it actually was. That's okay. It's sorta like we harvest our memories like the farmer harvests hay...stockpiling the best crop we can.