“Stay out of that corn crib!”
I can still hear my grandfather fussing at my sister and me as we giggled and conspired on how we would make our way back to the top of the corn crib and slide down again without incurring Papa’s wrath.
Our makeshift sliding board was actually an intricately designed set of corn bins (or cribs, as we called them) that used gravity to get the job done.
Our grandfather was a small-town businessman with a large workshop beside our house that housed his blacksmith forge and a gristmill. Looking back, I realize that this quiet, grizzly old man had managed to hammer out (pun intended) a prosperous living for his family in spite of hard times.
Of course, back then, I had no clue of the local economy or world problems. As far as I was concerned, I had a good life.
And my Papa’s workshop was one of the best parts of my good life.
People from all over the county and beyond would bring their corn harvest to Papa to have it ground into corn meal. Even in the mid 60’s, most of those farmers used a team of mules to haul their corn in a wagon to Papa’s gristmill.
I loved to watch as the highly coordinated men would back their wagon load of corn precisely up the dirt-packed incline to the top, back side of the shop and (seemingly) without trouble or much effort, dump their harvest into the corn crib at the top.
Then, voila! Gravity did the rest. Well, almost!
The corn tumbled along the gravity-induced set of cribs, until it reached the actual grinding mechanisms at the bottom of this unique wooden corn maze. (Ironically, I barely remember this most important part of the procedure. My childish priorities were selfishly skewed.)
But I do remember that the farmers soon left happily with their precious corn meal.
Now, after harvest time was over and the grinding came to a halt, Papa cleaned the cribs, detached and covered the grinding mechanism, then shut things down for the year.
Needless to say, my sister and I took great advantage of this down time. We had over very own super slide right there in the backyard of our rural Mississippi home.
Poor Papa! Our antics drove him crazy.
He was terrified we would encounter snake or rats while sliding, cut ourselves, or get a big gigantic splinter. (The latter scenario did happen a few times.)
So it is no wonder that 55 years later, I can still hear him yelling, “Stay out of that corn crib!”
But the corn-crib slide was the least of the dangers we were exposed to at Papa’s shop.
Oh, the absolute intrigue of his large, stone forge! The power, the glowing coals, those flames! And oh, the amazement at watching Papa heat and hammer a horseshoe, tool, knife, or whatever piece he was working on at the time.
The entire business seemed magical! To take a broken piece of metal and forge it back to life.
But we were never, ever allowed close enough to really examine the process. It was absolutely forbidden! We had to stay behind the latched gate and merely watch — alongside Papa’s customers.
And oh, the customers we met! I think that was the best part of the bargain for us kids. We always had a ready supply of guests to visit with each day. We never had to worry about being bored or lonely.
Each day held the prospect of new adventure — and a new friend. I imagine my love of community (and my love of Mississippi community in particular) was born under the front porch of Papa’s shop when the precious men and women of our town came to “set a spell” as they waited for corn to be ground, horses to be shoed, knives to be sharpened, or garden hoes to be mended.
With lots of ladder-back chairs, wooden stools, a checkerboard, and a set of checkers ready and waiting, those spells of “setting” were the some of the sweetest times of my childhood. (Plus, I got to be pretty good at checkers over the years.)
Oh, the tales that were told on Papa’s porch! Stories from days past about things I only glimpsed in history books. Pure excitement and comedy, laced with plenty of exaggerations and a few lies added for suspense. It’s no wonder that I grew up with a love of history as well as a passion for research and writing. I guess I just never stopped wanting to hear more stories.
So, here I am, over five decades later, and I can still hear Papa’s voice warning me of that corn crib. And I still want to giggle with my sister and climb right back into another Mississippi adventure.
In fact, I am heading on one tomorrow with a local Mississippi potter. (I cannot wait to tell you about it later.)
Just pray I stay out of trouble and do not encounter any snakes, rats, or gigantic splinters. And most of all, please pray that I never grow too old to “set a spell” so I can listen and learn from my fellow Mississippians.
