My daddy did not take
summer vacations,
Neither did our family.
He was a hard working man. 
Going to visit relations
however, was an altogether
right thing to do.

I was twelve when our family, 
packed arm-to-arm
in our blue and cream 
‘54 Desoto, traveled
back mountain roads.
looking for Daddy’s home place. 
He was a jokester,
a trickster, a ghostly 
storyteller who never
stopped working.

The closer we got to
Great Aunt Libby’s place 
the more carefree he became.
 Suddenly our car 
veered to the shoulder 
of a narrow country road.

Late July corn grew 
high on both sides
of the hot pavement,
fields with tall tassled stalks
as far as I could see,
”Just look, here” he said.
”Fresh corn for the pickin’. 
Nobody is going to 
miss a few of these 
good-looking ears.”
 
Two steps into carefully planted rows,
a man appears with a shotgun. 
Daddy, all smiles and grins, 
his firm hand extended 
for a neighborly shake, 
says “Well hi there. 
I am out looking at these 
fields of corn, mighty tempting 
for tonight’s dinner.
Would you sell us a bushel?”  

Daddy stood so proud, 
tossing ears of corn 
into the trunk of the car. 
Still grinning. Did I tell you 
Daddy was a salesman? 
He liked a good deal.

Green leaves wrapped
around tawny husks,
waiting to be shucked.
Most days are so ordinary.
Shedding the outside wrapping, 
fingering strands of silken threads,
I pull dreams from rows 
of juicy kernels, savoring sweet 
tasting memories
of a golden summer day.