We don't know for sure where it comes from, but for the last two years, several plants have sprouted out of the stumps left by the county when some ancient trees were cut down due to disease.
Last years' plants got very tall and even produced a few ears of rather stunted-looking kernals in various hues of brown and yellow. This year, some other plant has been growing along side of the corn, and my daughter -- herself a budding gardener -- thinks they are beans. "Three sisters, Mom," she told me last week on our morning dog walk. "Now all we need is some squash!"
For some reason that made me think of time travel. What if some member of an ancient tribe suddenly found themselves beamed there in our park, next to the tennis courts and across from the speeding traffic trying to make its way to the Capital Beltway? They probably wouldn't think it was a good place to plant a crop. Maybe they'd hide their stash of seeds in that old stump, though, for later.
(I think I may have watched far too many episodes of Star Trek back in the 1970s...)
A more likely scenario is that squirrels raided some one's Halloween display last year, took the decorative Indian corn and tucked it away for the winter in that nice little hollow spot.
The bigger mystery is this: why do the lawn mower and string trimmer guys take down everything else and leave this behind? They often come to work with their enormous machines and trim our new trees to death, indiscriminately taking out all kinds of great things that are supposed to actually be there. Why are they leaving these corn plants behind so carefully?
When I posed this question out loud on that same dog walk last week, my son began yelling and laughing. "Because they must have been the ones who planted it!!! They'll be back at the end of the season to pick it!"
I doubt it, but I'm glad they left it. I like it watching the reactions of my neighbors each morning as I'm walking silently on the other side of the park when my kids don't happen to be with me. Everyone seems charmed by those plants. A lot of people stop to see how tall it has gotten each day. Like me, most people cannot resist reaching out to pull a section of the leaves between their fingers. Sometimes these neighbors, who are dressed in heels or wingtips as they make their way to the Metro, look around sheepishly to see if anyone is watching. I feign boredom and leave them to their private wonder, pretending I have not seem them looking at the corn, my gaze hidden behind sunglasses.
I wonder if everyone thinks they are the only ones paying attention to those plants and their well-being. Like seeing a butterfly on the Metro when no one else does, or watching a duck on the roof of a nearby office building when you have a windowed seat at your computer, there's a feeling of nature's triumph over human excess and urbanization, a moment when you feel like nature will out, no matter what we idiot humans try to do to mess up the joint. First, you are a bit embarrassed and wonder if you are being too precious about things.
You have to laugh when you find yourself in that place, mentally. (At least I always do.)
Then, next thing you know, you find yourself out on the street trying to help that duck's offspring get across the street safely or running up the escalator with your hands gently cupped around the wings of the butterfly, trying to get to the top of that damned long ride at Dupont Circle before the thing dies in your sweaty palms...
I am a better flower gardener than vegetable lady. I remember once being told that corn needs something to really produce. You have to remove the tassels? Or help pollinate it somehow? Maybe that's why last year's corn looked stunted...? I guess I'm off to Google that and find out.
I will stop at the planting of squash, however. There are limits to this odd kind of urban stewardship, and that's mine.
Besides, maybe that time-travelling Native American will come back and do it before I get a chance.
1 comments:
Love this. My money is on these folks.
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