Knee high by the Fourth of July, my grandfather used to say. The ears of corn begin to form, and the tassels on top. Now taller than even grandpa. Just as the weather begins to cool, the stalks of corn start to take on the golden color of the harvest. The waiting for growth, counting the ears on each stalk, waiting for rain, then the mad rush to harvest the core before the first snow, then the wait, wait, wait through the brown and snowy winter for the spring thaw when the planting begins again.
Life there centers around the crops.
Planting, growing, harvesting, planting. Birth, life, death, rebirth. Dependent entirely on the goodwill of the universe. Grandma leans over the sink to gaze with worried face at the blue sky. It always rains just before it's too late.