I love corn-on-the-cob. Corn with butter, corn with salt, corn with teriyaki sauce; I love it all. I
Am endlessly in awe of each delicate kernel’s precise alignment, despite its husky, green blanket. I love the typewriter rhythm of each bite, the juicy pops that ensue in every chomp; I even love the strings that inevitably wedge themselves into my teeth. But every year, after gazing for seven consecutive hours at row after row of my “thought to be” beloved corn, I begin to question my sanity.

My family has gone on a pilgrimage to the home of the “Cornhuskers” every year since I was two.
Being an ear-piercing toddler, I’m always amazed by the patience they seemed to retain. This patience
Must have worn thin as I grew into a headphone clad pre-teen, complete with braces and off-centered
Pigtails. In the car, I was self-segregating girl too cool to be bothered by anything but my Walkman and
Decrepit Backstreet Boys CD. Years later, no longer entertained by the wooing lyrics of dreamy singers, I
Found myself at a loss to fill the hours. My younger brother had his Gameboy and; my mom was driving.
Grandma and Grandpa, I thought, surely couldn’t provide any fun, as old people are generally incredibly boring. I was wrong. Stories I heard from my grandparents in our 1998 Ford Expedition blessed me with more laughs and wisdom than I ever gained from any movie or class. Each story gave insight into the true Individuals my grandparents really are. Just a few of the stories are:

Grandpa slyly putting a rubber eraser on his 1939 schoolhouse heater, in turn making the entire room smell like skunks and flatulence,
Grandma not learning how to drive until the age of 35; and, after learning, still having the brilliant
Tendency of closing her eyes when things got too scary,
Grandma showing me her “hip” dance moves (to name a few: the Charleston, Lindy Hop, and Hand Jive),
Grandpa organizing a women’s softball league for the retired women in his community, and always being amazed at their insanely competitive ways,
Their first date, a blind-date (yes, I know it sounds romantic, but with the way things went it’s a
surprise Grandma even let her later-to-be husband drive her home that night).

It seemed that with each new tale, my stomach was relentlessly convulsing in laughter. I always enjoy waiting to see the loving twinkle in my Grandpa’s pale, blue eyes as he tells stories of himself “back in the day.” Each time we talk, his devious and wily smirk foreshadows and especially good story. Grandma, in her timid ways, is so innocent in telling a particularly embarrassing story. When I try to spur her on, it’s no surprise to see her eyes widen, lips converge in an attempt at a hidden smile, and her smooth, grandmotherly voice exclaiming, “Oh my!….surely I couldn’t!”

Their immensely differing personalities have, over time, molded them into two of the greatest storytellers I have ever known. Filling in each other’s sentences, demurely smiling and laying a hand on each other’s shoulder, their tales relay how their lives together have formed their memories into what can only be described as rare and remarkable.

Now, driving past those fields of corn, I no longer question my sanity. Instead, I see, through their eyes and mine, the vast world that life has really offered me. Each of my memories has, and will become a single kernel, lining up row after row and becoming what will one day be my own tales to tell.