When I think back to my childhood 4th of Julys, a swirl of memories fills my mind, painted in the soft hues of dawn.
Up at 3 am, the kitchen bustling with the warm scent of scrambled eggs being made into sandwiches.
The gentle clink of mason jars that were being filled with water, soon to be put into Daddy’s car and tucked in snugly under heavy quilts to quench our thirst later in the morning.
Within the hour, while the world still slept, we slipped away in the darkness, with the whispers of cornfields that beckoned to us.
Daddy would park at the edge of the vast cornfield, as the darkness slowly began to lift.
Green stalks were softly revealed swaying gently in the early morning breeze.
As we waited for the morning sun to yawn awake, we sat quietly eating an egg sandwich.
The sun awakes and peeks over the horizon telling us it was time to take those first steps into the corn.
Fingers became sticky with the early morning dew, the golden kernels whispering secrets.
As a child it was easy to get lost in those towering stalks.
I would call out for Momma, and she would talk me through the maze.
Each basket we filled with ears of corn was like a treasure, and the cool clear water was a relief for the dry parched throats.
When the last basket was filled, and the last jar of water drank – our morning was complete.
And our day was just beginning.
Back at home, Momma and I washed jars for the canning process while Daddy chopped the ends from the corn.
Then Momma, with her red-handled knife, and me with my yellow-handled knife, began the shucking and silking of the corn.
It did not take long for the silk to stick to our fingers – but each of us had an old kitchen towel at our waist for just such a moment.
Ears of corn were heated and blanched, packed tightly into bags and carted off to the freezer.
Other ears were readied for cutting off the cob.
One of my favorite parts of the day.
Corn spatters covered Momma and me as we raced one another to see who could get the most cobs ready for the pig and chickens.
The cut corn was then heated, being stirred constantly so it did not scorch, and then packed into the jars and placed into the pressure cooker.
That pressure cooker was a dragon!
It was my responsibility to keep checking it every few minutes, adjusting the flame under it to keep it at a steady pressure.
Lunch was always bologna sandwiches, spread thick with Daddy’s special sauce. Our fingers clutching the bread while our hands rested from the corn.
A silk or two always found its way to our sandwich.
Cold water or sweet tea washed away the heat of the morning.
Sitting on the porch, listening to stories that Daddy and Momma told.
The afternoon was more of the shucking and silking, the washing and cooking, freezing and canning.
Stories told.
I can still hear the laughter ringing clearly through those summer hours.
About mid-afternoon, when the last of the corn had been cut, shucked and waited to be silked, the ice-cold watermelons were brought out and sliced open.
The juice ran with the silks, but oh how sweet was the taste!
And always a seed-spitting contest interrupted the work!
Momma and I once again picked up our knives, and a cob of corn.
Returning to the silking while Daddy pulled out the ice cream freezer.
As we sat on the porch in the hot Texas sun, we watched the ice being pushed down into the freezer – and we felt the coolness.
Just as the gloaming of the evening began, Momma would get the bowls and spoons. We sat there on that old porch, letting the chill of ice cream cool us.
Somewhere around midnight, Momma would say,
“Well, it’s done. 300 ears of corn put away for the winter.”
I remember laying in the bed those nights, body sore and tired, hands about numb from the work, and feeling the satisfaction of laughter, love, and a job well done.
My childhood 4th of July – forever etched in the memories, never to be forgotten.
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