The past four weeks saw me bringing in the harvest, which turned out to be a solitary pastime. I took on the just-short-of-two acres of corn that we planted, and then went back to harvest about an acre of beans that had been intercropped with the corn on one side of our farm.
The sun shows itself and beats down in the afternoon, so most days I tried to get an early start. Neither of my neighbors on either side had started harvesting theirs, so some days passed where I didn’t leave our property and didn’t see a single other soul. The sound of rustling corn husks and the snap of cobs being broken from stalks filled my ears.
Our neighbor dog, Master, came over several days to keep me company, finding a shady spot in the field to snooze and watch me from. My flock of chickens patrolled the rows I already harvested, looking for earwigs and stray kernels that had popped off the ends of the cobs.
It seemed like a large task, but as I tackled it hour by hour and day by day, it didn’t seem so bad. Getting an early start to avoid the midday sun and taking frequent ginger tea breaks definitely helped make it more doable.
After about two and a half weeks, all the cobs were in, mounded on a blue tarp in one of our spare unfinished rooms. Then I started the task of shelling. I have a small aluminum hand sheller, with which I can shell about 10 to 15 kilos of corn in an hour – about 20 or 25 pounds. That’s enough to fill the basin I was shelling into; then I take a second basin and go outside to winnow the corn.
On a windy day, the distance between a woman’s hip and the ground is just the right distance to winnow. Pour the corn from one basin to another and the chaff and bits of cob that mixed in with the kernels will separate and fly off with the wind. The kernels rattle and hiss against each other.
Corn is heavy, corn is cool in your hand. Corn is what we harvested, and corn is what we will eat.