We bounced down a gravel road too far outside of town to jump out and walk back.  When the road smoothes out, I can hear the old men in the cab carrying a conversation.  Something about a water shed.  But mostly my cousin and I hold tight to the truck bed and keep our eyes squinted against the dust that catches up when we slow.  

Our grandfather needs help tending to one of his fields, and I presume it’s more corn.  He promises to feed us and take us fishing afterwards.  There is rarely an exchange of money, but usually a hot meal.  Grandpa has six siblings, and they lived through events called dust bowl and depression.  Grandchildren are expected to help work the land with joy in their hearts.

Working on pasture land feels good.  Pulling steel cables of barbed wire, cutting with metal shears, and towing fallen trees out of the creek.  I feel the raw strength in my developing muscles, shoring up fence line and handling heavy tools.  The sun is always beating down, but you can count on a breeze across the Kansas plains.  

Working corn fields is a different experience.  The sun still beats down, but the stalks are high, and the fields usually sit low, closer to water.  The breeze doesn’t reach your sun-soaked body.  God made corn stalks tough too.  They need to stand up to the elements and insects, protecting the beautiful sweet corn inside each husk.  Sharp edges will cut right through your soft skin, so long pants and long sleeves are highly encouraged.  A handkerchief around the neck and leather gloves will also save you from lingering pain.  

We turn off the gravel, settle into a soft dirt trail, and roll to a stop.  I duck and cover in the bed while the dust settles around us.  Grandpa is the first to emerge from the cab.  He chuckles to himself while walking to the tailgate, completely in his element among these ancient fields.  

“Today, we need to clear a few rows closest to the river,” he says.  

There’s a sideways glance between cousins.  We’re definitely down in the corn.  Grandpa uses his voice to make clearing a few rows sound simple.  In reality, my cousin and I will be bent over pulling bindweed and thistle from several acres of land.  The old men will walk through the field, speculating on the harvest still months away, and determining what sections of the pasture might need worked over again.  Once satisfied, they’ll retreat to the cab to sip hot coffee and cold water.  

Grandpa drops the tailgate while we stretch our backs and legs.  I jump down onto the soft brown soil.  It smells familiar and welcoming, like being at home.  We’ll work all morning pulling weeds, cursing occasionally under our breath, but never complaining once to the man who brought us here.  We do it because it’s what we’re expected to do.  We do it because we respect our families who’ve done the same thing for generations before.  We do it because we love the earth and we love the man who brought us out to work these ancient fields.