Life of Wry

Well [hangs head], I didn’t have a picture-of-the-day for today, so, in desperation, sent myself back into the archives to see if I could find an appropriate summertime image that I might use with the caption, On this day in [insert a bygone year], or something like that.

And lo, I found one that works… not exactly taken on August 10th, but close.  Here is a 4-year-old Peter (2002, for those not wanting to do the math), standing amongst the tall corn out at Impossible Acres… at the corner of County Road 31 and County Road 97D, for you non-locals.  (Though a true local will point out that Impossible Acres was in a different location back in 2002… more like Road 96, maybe.)  I noticed that the caption on this old photo said that he’s berry picking.  Hmmm, even this non-farm girl knows a cornstalk from a berry bush.  (Apparently, I didn’t back then.)

In any case, the perfect central valley summer scene, a mere nine years ago.

So, as I said, not a farm girl (quite the contrary: grew up in the suburban wilds of Los Angeles), but I have plenty of relatives who hail from the great farm belt, Iowa specifically…so many, in fact, I know the Iowa Corn Song.  We sang this song a lot at Peterson family gatherings and, oddly (but funnily), nobody sang it louder (and more off-tune) than my San Francisco born and bred, urban street-wise mom.

Here are the lyrics:

IOWA CORN SONG

Let’s sing of Grand old I-O-Way, Yo-Ho, yo-ho, yo-ho
Our love is strong-er ev-‘ry day, Yo-Ho, yo-ho, yo-ho
So come a-long and join the throng, Sev-‘ral hun-dred thou-sand strong
As you come just sing this song, Yo-Ho, yo-ho, yo-ho

We’re from I-O-way, I-O-way. State of all the land
Joy on ev-‘ry hand. We’re from I-O-way, I-O-way
That’s where the tall corn grows

Our land is full of ripe-ning corn, Yo-Ho, yo-ho, yo-ho
We’ve watched it grow both night and morn, Yo-Ho, yo-ho, yo-ho
But now we rest, we’ve stood the test. All that’s good we have the best
I-O-way has reached the crest, Yo-Ho, yo-ho, yo-ho

We’re from I-O-way, I-O-way. State of all the land
Joy on ev-‘ry hand. We’re from I-O-way, I-O-way
That’s where the tall corn grows

We’re from I-O-way, I-O-way. State of all the land
Joy on ev-‘ry hand. We’re from I-O-way, I-O-way
That’s where the tall corn grows

 

In another post, at another time, I’ll share stories about being on my grandfather’s brother’s farm in Hampton, Iowa.  If I get the nerve, I’ll talk about the time he sent us (me, a couple brothers and some cousins) out to the grain barn with baseball bats to club mice, and how we proudly brought back our haul–fistfulls of dead rodents, dangling by their long tails in bloody bunches, to show a pleased Uncle Verner and Aunt Carol (our parents, on the other hand, were a bit appalled, though polite enough).  But it’s too grim to go into now.

Trying to segue, instead, into a closing comment about last night’s wonderfully sweet and delectable grilled corn, but not coming up with anything.. so will end my post here.

Go Iowa.