When I was a kid, a typical family vacation pointed our ’56 two-tone Buick in the direction of Freelandville, Indiana, a main street hometown by any other name. Many times the trips to see the grandparents took days and days of tortuous travel — tortuous, at least, to sister Pat and me, bored out of our minds in a cramped and hot back seat shared with Bonnie, the family dog, and an over-sized red metal Coca-Cola cooler filled with crushed ice and baloney with mustard sandwiches.
Eventually, as Indiana grew closer, the sides of the road turned into miles and miles of unbroken cornfields whose perpendicular furrows converged individually at a point on the horizon like dwindling railroad tracks. The mesmerizing effect as the Buick swept past the perfect rows was that of a very tall circus man running on stilts, always a half-step ahead of our speeding vehicle. To me, he was simply the Cornfield Man, who — year after year — tirelessly lulled me to sleep without ever once whispering his destination.
(originally published and copyrighted© 1998-2010 by Simply Tim in the Recipe du Jour news letter.)
Tim says: I still see the Cornfield Man from time to time. But he is a dark and unfriendly character when you are driving.