Sometimes, objects, places, and even mundane moments are more profound than we give them credit for, like bridges, telephone poles, and a thousand other things. Maybe they don’t receive recognition because they fill needs instead of dreams, practical purpose instead of fanciful. We expect the everyday to do what the everyday should do for us, with no extra credit. They are what they are.
I drank a beer on a friend’s front porch one August afternoon while mindlessly keeping life’s rhythm in a wooden rocking chair.
Looking south, I could see the faintest stencil of the high peaks of the Adirondack Mountains. Done with my beer but not my rocking, I walked to the back porch and gazed north, toward the “River of the Iroquois,” the mighty St. Lawrence. Those are two powerful porches.
I watched the sun fall from the Canadian sky, sending fading strands of yellow and orange light into New York state. The beams washed over and around the house as the gloaming stained the split-rail fence with a dripping-brush-full of authentic earth tones. This was no warm, antique photo filter. This was mother nature, vivid and real.
The sun and its last bit of ethereal ink stamped a cross-stitch pattern across the land, blending with the timeless greens of the cornfield, the weathered browns of Amish barns, and Belgian draft horses. And just before it disappeared into night, it kissed the orphaned-gray sky to the east lightly on the cheek.
A stunning sunset by any account, like those seen sinking into the mountain-ringed beaches of Hanalei Bay, Hawaii, or painting the high walls of El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. And infinite others hypnotizing drop-mouthed tourists along the deck rails of cruise ships. We have all witnessed epic sunsets in places, either exotic or not. But for me, this one was different. As it sank into the adjacent cornfield, it took on an otherworldly glow, dimmed but not diminished.
Within the hour, the noir of night replaced the sepia colors of dusk.
Shadows cast where once sunlight beamed, and the sound of chirping crickets, hooting owls, and yipping coyotes overtook the whoosh of wind and the squawking of crows. An overwhelming pull toward the cornfield bullied out the once peaceful resignation of the day. The mood was not like the horror film, “Children of the Corn,” but the magnetism was. This need felt potent, like a calling or a dare you knew you could not turn down. I felt compelled to surround myself with that which looks beautiful from afar and to commune with something as alive as I want to be, even if chiggers, ticks, and other creatures threatened to pop my philosophical bubble. Soulful need and practical caution called from opposite shoulders, like competing auctioneers. That was bound to happen because good ideas are born on the backs of bad ones.
I armed myself, not with bug spray, a stick, or a jacket, but with a 1974 Martin D-35 guitar, a bottle of locally aged 601 Bourbon, and a guttural sense that a song awaited. I hiked into the corn, picking the middle-most row, and then walked until I thought I had reached the center of the field.
I hoped to make it there long before I got thirsty, but thirst arrived before the destination, plus the whiskey drew heavy in my hand.
Finally, somewhere near the halfway point in the rows, even if not at dead center, I popped the cork and plopped myself down, laying the neck of my guitar across the dark dirt berm of a row, just like a cradle.
Words flowed, maybe because I dutifully pursued my muse, or perhaps it felt guilty about the possibility of me becoming mud-soaked, chigger-bit, and drunk, all without ever getting a song. No matter the reason, lyrics and melody followed me into that field. I played a fast Travis-style fingerpicking pattern on my guitar and did my best to collect the string of phrases on scraps of paper I found in my jeans pocket. That was just the beginning.
The universe treated me to a moment granted only to willing and well-intentioned trespassers.
My ass may have sat on the muddy ground, but my head tilted back, awash in the Perseid Meteor Shower. It began early and with a frequency rivaling its man-made Fourth- of- July counterpart. The debris from the comet, Swift-Tuttle, shot across the sky from Perseus to parts unknown in a display I had not seen since the deep wilds of Canada. Perhaps because I lay my head upon the Honeoye soil of Amish country, where even fewer lights shine than most other rural areas. Or simply because of being so far north, six miles from Ontario, as the crow flies.
I didn’t ponder the why of life as much as the what.
I shot back another healthy swig of bourbon, laid prone in the mud, and maybe in the chiggers, and God knows what else, tucked the neck of my guitar between stalks of corn; picked, sang, wrote, even cried, but only enough to feel alive.
Over the next hour, life offered the lyrics to my new song. The opening words blazed across the mid-line between my conscious and unconscious mind like the first streak of stardust overhead, so fast I almost missed it. Good songs come just that way, like comet tails.
I saw my old man bolt across the sky and my grandparents, too.
The night in the cornfield was not sad. It was not happy either. But it was everything else.
I understand something about life when I speak of bridges, telephone poles, porches, and sunsets. So too, when I sing of shooting stars, regrets, and loving memories. And here’s a fact of life I know to be a blessing and a curse, but mostly a blessing.
Things are what they are. Until you see them as so much more.
I would love to hear what you thought about this essay and if it brought any personal memories or stories to mind. Please feel free to leave a comment. I’ll answer all of them. I would love to strike up a conversation about this piece and your thoughts. Please consider sharing this newsletter with a friend. Thank you. - Mark
Lovely, Mark. Beautifully written and true.
Felt like I was there in the corn field with you. I think I found the chiggers!