*

This is some of the best looking corn in the area, maybe within five, six miles. About six feet high right now. There's another field over closer to the town where the annual Corn Festival takes place the third week next month. It's up a bit higher, and probably a different hybrid. All sweet corn.

Most of the other corn fields around here may be little more than knee-high. You know, almost end of August and all. Late start because of the rains and persistent cool weather. Of course, now it's dry as a bone, as it's supposed to be, but still on the cool side.

Aside from the ears boiled and/or bagged and sold to the festive, most everything else goes to the cannery. The labels on their cans are in dire need of redesign, but this year might not be the time to go to such expense. I do like me some cream corn. Grew up on it. Better stock up now.

Had another occasion to take a stroll down that lane tonight. Our orchardist friends had birthdays and invited us to porch sit, watch the sun set (oh, if I had brought my camera) and eat peaches, picked, pitted and sliced an hour before. Nice folks: she sweet, he with his faux-gruff manner. They would have gotten on with my grandparents.

—How did they care for that peach tree? he asks.

—They did nothin'. Just picked.

—Any other?

—A McIntosh in the front yard we climbed. Both trees are long gone.

—How go the deliveries? DW asks. I cringe a bit.

—They go. Orders are down this year, economy being what it is. Just as well. Fruit is for shit.

We all get quiet. The sun is behind the Coast range now, looking something like this: