The floor of the porch on the south
was covered with a sheet.
All over that cloth were spread, to dry, tiny kernels of corn,
sweet.
We had watched Velma cut and scrape them from a cob,
And she never once complained about the work, or the job.
The rustling leaves of the stalks that held the harvest
Remained to remind them of her planting rows at best,
We in childlike ways dropped hand fulls at their edge,
It occurred, to us this was a way to secretly hedge.
A child’s mind cannot see to the future,
Our little deception would eventually tell her,
When bunches of stalks at the end of the row,
Were certainly obvious and for everyone to know.
Our Mother, they said, was an opportunist,
But, how could someone label her like this,
Using the screened in porch for saving her crop,
Was maybe opportunity, but next, let us talk about the pop.
No one but Velma planted acres of popcorn seed,
Neither would they see the need,
Or opportunity, as it were, along with tags
To sell the kernels, wrapped in cellophane bags
All we knew as children was the joy of the time, that use.
Years later Velma told she prayed her crops might produce,
So her children would be healthy and strong,
Is this the opportunist and was that wrong?
See
article on Sun Drying Corn
