C is for corn

You thought I was going to say "Caneyhead", didn't you?

No, today I'm talking about corn memories.  Rows of corn growing in Daddy's garden.  Daddy plowing the waist high corn with his jennie.  Jenny trying to grab a bite as they went down the rows.  Daddy stopping at the end of one to lean against the georgie stock and smoke a cigarette, while
rewarding a good Jenny with a niblet ear.

Once Daddy was sure there was a coon visiting our garden.  Every day he'd find one or two stalks bent down and an ear peeled off.  Nothing but a the green husks and some cob left on the ground.  But we didn't live in an area that was home to coons.  No real woods around.  And he never could find a coon print or any other sign.  Couldn't catch any in the field when he'd shine it at night.

One day, we found the answer.  Our beloved Susie dog was found laying in between two rows, corn upright between her paws, pulling the husks down with her teeth so she could get to the golden kernels.  Susie was my best friend.  An alert dog.  A snake dog.  Daddy didn't mind at all if it was her enjoying the fruits of his labor. 

In fact, Susie would nibble all sorts of delights from the garden.  Green beans.  Fresh peas, shelled the same way she peeled the corn.

She was just some little Heinz 57 mix that we had gotten from Aunt Norma when she was a pup.  But we all believed her to be the smartest, best dog ever.  She passed away when I was in 5th grade.  I remember Mama picking me up from school and telling me the awful news.  We got home to find Daddy cutting up his old wonderful marine tool chest to make her a coffin.  Tears rolling down his cheeks while he worked.  Mama made a lining out of an old sheet and a pillow.  We lay my little dog down and put her to rest beneath a crape mertyl tree in the backyard.

Barbara

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