How about a story to take your mind off the market carnage?

I love sweet corn. Always did. When I was young (in small town Iowa) , my grade school buddies and I would often raid the neighbors’ fields as the kernels were just beginning to turn from tasteless white to so-sweet yellow. We’d shuck it right there in the field and eat it raw right off the cob, five or six ears apiece. If anyone came by, we would just move farther into the field and sit silently in the dense forest of eight foot tall stalks until the threat had passed.

Once, however, this scenario didn’t play out as scripted. Someone must have spotted us because only minutes after we had slipped into the field, we heard a truck approach and stop. Then the voices of the farmer and his wife. Then of their four sons as they all gathered at the edge of the field devising their own plan. They were going to space themselves every 10 or 12 rows and comb the field from one end to the other. All we could do was head for the other end as quickly and silently as possible.

As I ran, crouched over with my hands clasped and arms pointed straight ahead to deflect the leaves, my mind was reeling. I strained to remember what was at that far end (a fence, or a road, or another field – maybe soybeans?), and trying to devise an appropriate strategy for each.

Once at the end, we quickly huddled silently together and listened. We could hear the faint but growing sounds of their much taller and wider bodies brushing the leaves on both sides as they moved up the rows. We had managed to extend our lead on them to a few hundred feet, And, that was good. We needed time. Because the field ended at a wire mesh fence, which separated the field from a muddy, cattail-choked ditch half full of water next to a gravel road. On the other side of the road was a half-mile deep hay field that had just been harvested. Beyond that, the woods.

What should we do? We each knew we had done wrong, and that surrendering and confessing was the noble thing to do. But, no one dared mention this option for fear of being labeled the wimp, the scaredy cat, the sell-out. And, of course, for the additional fear of what the farmer’s sons, and then our parents, would deem an appropriate penalty for our misdeeds.

So, what could we do? The woods were too far to run – we were certain to be spotted crossing the hay field and they could easily run us down there. Heading to either side of the sweet corn field would probably only delay our capture. So, our only real option was to climb the fence, slip into the ditch, submerge ourselves among the weeds and rushes with only our heads above water, and wait it out, hoping that our pursuers were unwilling to endure the discomfort of slogging into the muddy water in pursuit of a few juvenile corn poachers.

And, that’s just what we did. Almost immediately after getting into position, we heard one of the sons call to the others. “I’m at the fence. No one here.”

From several yards to the side, “No one here, either.”

Seconds later from the other side, “Nothing here. We must have missed them.”

After a long pause – long enough to rekindle our hopes of escape, we heard what we had all been dreading, “They might have gone into the creek.” And, it was said by the one closest to where we were huddled, submerged to our chins among the weeds.

With this, our already high and rising anxiety and fear turned to full panic. Our bodies literally shuddered and our minds raced imagining the humiliation, fear, parental scorn, loss of privileges, pain, and more pain that awaited us. We sat there, breathless and shivering in fear, for what seemed an eternity.

Then, from several yards away, we heard the farmer say, “No, they probably crossed the hayfield and are deep in the woods by now. We’ll get ‘em next time.”

The others voiced their concurrence as they walked toward each other, then they moved back into the field together, calmly discussing the condition of the corn and when it should be ready to pick.

We waited as their voices faded away, but we didn’t move until we heard the sound of the truck doors shutting, the engine starting, and the truck driving away. Only then did we begin to extricate ourselves from the scratching weeds and stinking muck we had so willingly scrambled into a short time before.

Eventually, we all had crawled up to the side of the road, and were scraping mud off of and out of our shoes when we heard a car approaching. We could tell it wasn’t the farmer’s truck, but who was it? As it drew nearer, we saw that it had a light bar on top. It was the county sheriff.

Again, we quickly evaluated our options. The woods were still too far to reach unseen. In fact, the sheriff had probably seen us already, so slipping back into the ditch wouldn’t help, either. The corn field? No, we’d pressed our luck far enough with that option. So, we just sat where we were and continued to clean ourselves off the best we could.

When the sheriff’s car reached us, he leaned out the window, slowly looked each of us up and down, but said nothing. We looked back, also in silence, trying desperately not to convey our feelings of guilt, fear, and dread. Finally, he sat back, sighed, then said, “I suggest you boys do your eatin’ at home from now on, okay?”

We all nodded. One said, “yes, sir.” He turned away and slowly drove on. And, we began the long walk home. (To be continued.)