A kindred spirit, with a gift for turning a phrase, reminded me to take the time to smell the corn when I made it out to the country this week.  Now, that kind of suggestion may sound odd to some, but there are those who are of the disposition that it's the little things in life, like a musk-scented ripening crop, that makes your cup runneth over.  I am of that disposition.  I have no consiousness of brand names (ok, Levis, Honda & Hanes). I just know that I prefer clothes that are made of cotton and are comfortable.  My TV is old and clunky, I appreciate gifts that have sentimental value, and I leave the dust on my car after a visit to the farm.

 So, the morning of my trip I pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans, a cotton sweater, and my old flip-flops and headed out.  I remembered to bring along my mom's beat-up copy of Main Street by Sinclair Lewis, and a dorky birthday card for my friend, Monica.    It was a very exciting trip, because it was my first drive on new Highway 212.  Smooooth.

I spent my morning with Luci and Monica on Monica's shady deck, surrounded by fields of corn.  But something was bugging me about the crops.  When I got to my folk's farm, I said to my old dad, "Is the corn taller this year than in past years, or am I shrinking?"  Mom and dad laughed at me, but dad agreed it was the tallest crop he had ever seen in his 91 years.  Now that's saying something!  After all the dire predictions earlier this year of ruined crops, my dad is predicting a bumper-bumper crop. 

I asked my mom if she had ever seen such tall hollyhocks in her life, and she had to admit those, too, were unprecedentedly tall. 

 I spent a few lovely hours in heaven, swinging with my mom on the glider-swing my dad built, in the most perfect weather known to man.  We didn't even have to swat mosquitos.  I feel so blessed with abundance, that I'm at a loss for words.  . . my cup runneth over.