They start as kernels and grow into ears that epitomize summertime in New England: Sweet corn encapsulates Franklin County’s farming culture — the rolling hills; the sweeping valleys; the patchwork crops stitched together by glistening rivers.
When grilled to a slight char, sweet corn is a dinnertime delight. Ground up and poured into troughs, corn fuels the region’s agricultural industry.
And when viewed from a passing car, twisting in the wind along a winding country road, corn becomes a barometer of temperature and time — nature’s clock. From tiny sprouts in the spring to swaying stalks in the summer, the plants change from green to gold as the weather turns from warm to cool.
Early in the year, fed by snow-melt and spring rain, kernels, remnant from the previous year’s harvest, give birth to seedlings. Then they grow like weeds.
I’ve taken particular note of the transformation this year, as the months have gone by quickly — it will go down in history as an eventful one. It’s simultaneously felt like a terribly long year and a short one. Seemingly overnight, once-bare dirt is now overflowing with agricultural bounty.
Since the first lockdown order was initiated, the region’s corn crops have sprouted beautifully into the sun-drenched fields of green that today hedge in roadways across the region, from Deerfield to Heath. Farmstands everywhere are overflowing with sweet corn.
But soon, dried by this summer’s unrelenting heat, the husks will dry up and turn to gold.
September is suddenly on our doorstep and fall will be upon us before we know it — that annual season of colonial magic when cornfields are transformed from pastoral vistas to gothic dreamworlds. At night, the stalks will rustle in deathly whispers and frame pale full moons.
Come morning, mist will rise from the cool waters of the Connecticut and Deerfield rivers. Corn mazes will open for the season and apple cider doughnuts will be as plentiful as pumpkins.
Then the corn stalks will be cut down close to the hardening dirt.
The first snowfall will arrive and the shortened stalks will peek from a blanket of white until they’re covered altogether. Fields will be put to bed until next year’s planting.
It’s a cycle that’s gone on for as long as humans have roamed these woods, and it will continue long after I’ve passed on.
Mother Nature is a steady mistress; time marches on — pandemic or not.
When the next spring comes, I’m hoping it won’t be so crowded with dire events and breaking news. I’m hoping the most important development of 2021 will come when the corn stalks turn from green to gold, mist rises from Cranberry Lake and the nights take on a distinct rustic aroma that can only mean one thing: impending autumn.
Andy Castillo is features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.