Today as I drove through beautiful Italian countryside towards the town of Pontecorvo I passed a field of corn. It is two weeks since last saw it and thought to myself “It wont be up to the top of the fence by Christmas”. Today I thought “three weeks until Christmas, and yes, it is almost high enough”.
I smile as I make these apparently ridiculous silent observations, all the while calculating how far we are here in Italy, now in June, from the equivalent growing season in New Zealand. The fact that this Pontecorvo cornfield has no fence around it at all is totally irrelevant. In my mind it is growing fast towards that goal, racing to reach the top of the imaginary fence in my relocated “Christmas” marker of time.
Why is it important that the corn (or maize, as I knew it) be up to the fence by Christmas? Well, apparently – at least for the cultivars planted when I was a child – the crops that had reached fence height by Christmas would almost certainly be mature enough to harvest, and store in the cribs with netting to keep out the birds, before the bad weather arrived. If the plants hadn’t reached the fence by Christmas then there was the risk that the corn wouldn’t dry out and keep, or, worse still, the risk that it wouldn’t be harvested if the rains came and the heavy machinery became bogged in the mud.
How is this relevant to a book blog? It struck me this morning that the phrase “up to the top of the fence by Christmas” had become a part of who I am, how I think. As a child I noticed the crops, the fence tops, and the season. Things we learn in a nurturing environment stay with us.
I thought then of the other associations that spin out from this: happy memories of sitting in the crib turning the cobs, ostensibly making sure that they were drying right through, but in fact savouring the colours, the silky feel of the smooth grains of corn, and enjoying being up in the crib which was like a tree house to me. Happy memories also of the books I read, and the colours in the illustrations that reflected my childhood. Phrases from some of those books stay with me too. Who could ever forget the Little Red Hen, or Henny Penny with poor Chicken Licken as the sky began to fall? Childhood memories shape us, if we let them.
I enjoy revisiting memories from my childhood; always happy ones. But, oddly enough, when I look back at these memories now I often see them in pen and wash, as book illustrations, as fictional things. I am blurring fact and fiction; smelling the dust at my feet and the dogs in the kennels nearby, feeling the sun on my skin as I pull myself up into the maize crib, looking back to only the golden weather.
I would love to sketch the children clambering up into the maize crib. The image has come before the story. I am beginning to think that the best books for very young children are those that are firmly grounded in reality, a secure place from which they can reach out and explore. Is there a book in that “rich garnered grain”?
I doubt that I could easily locate an old maize crib with corrugated iron roof and the birds hovering around. There my memory will have to suffice. It is not too difficult to find a crop of corn to draw; like Christmas, the season is approaching. I do wonder, however, “How high is the fence?”