Corn-Shelling

A Story-Poem Inspired by the Art of Eastman Johnson

Issue #8

Corn-shelling, Eastman Johnson, 1864.

I

His mother
died giving birth
four short years ago.
He is the last gift
that she gave me.
A child or
our old age—
unexpected, unwanted,
but greatly loved.
She was forty
when she found
she was pregnant.
She had given birth
to eight other children
and had no desire for more.

Three had been born dead—
all boys—taken from us
by the hand of Gabriel.
She never complained.
Never cursed God.
Never raised her fist
in anger like me.
But I felt her spirit
slowly being crushed
like corn being ground
into meal. Two of our children
died in the year of the pox.
All five lay buried on the hill
where she lies,
waiting for the return
of our Lord and Savior.

So his birth
was a miracle—
a gift from God.
I named him Jeremiah
for the great prophet
of Israel, child of my loins,
son of my flesh. May God
have mercy on my soul.
He has given new life
to these tired bones,
brought happiness
to this weary soul,
saved me from an existence
of melancholy and despair.

But like all things—
God giveth and
God taketh away.
I miss my Sarah.
How she winked at me
when she laughed
as if she was letting me in
on some private joke.
The compassion in her heart
for the needy and less fortunate.
Like when she plodded through
a foot of freshly fallen snow
to take food to the Yoders
when their mother was sick.
The mashed potatoes and gravy
that she prepared with love.
And the warm cornbread
dipped in butter and honey.

Watching him
playing on the floor
reminds me of her.
He has her blue eyes,
her quickness to laugh,
her joy in small things.
I am proud of him
as only a father
can be proud.

The good book sayeth
that pride goeth before
a fall, and God knows,
I've stumbled a lot in my life,
but I can't help myself.
Yes, I love
his three older sisters
but there is something
special about him.
Sarah gave me the son
that I've always wanted—
the last act of her love.

Farming is hard work—
even now shelling corn.
I am reminded of the toil,
the labor it took
to raise this corn.
But it is all worthwhile
because I know one day
the farm will be his
if he wants it. The girls 
will leave me to live
with their husbands and
to raise their own families.
That has always been
God's way since the time
of Adam and Eve.

I hope that God
will allow me to live
long enough to see him
work the fields.
These bones of mine
are weary—and full
of aches and pains.
Each day, I struggle
to climb out of bed.
Each night, I rub
liniment on my tired muscles.

He has the energy
and vitality of my youth.
If only I could experience
what he sees. To understand
what goes on inside his head.
Neither of us talks much.
I have never told him that
I loved him. I've never told
my daughters, either. But they 
are in my heart and thoughts.

Soon, I must go outside into
the harsh, cold winter night
to milk our few cows and
slop the hogs. But I linger,
shelling the corn, watching
him, remembering her.
He loves to play with the corn
cobs. He invents all kinds
of games and stories in his
small head. For awhile, he
takes pleasure in building us
a new cabin or maybe a barn.
Then, magically, the cabin is
transformed into a fort.
I love to watch the way
his mind works, sees
things in new ways.

May God be kind to him and
not make him suffer as his
mother and I have suffered.
May he find joy and
happiness in the simple 
things like shelling corn.
I offer him—the only thing
a father has to give—my blessing
and my prayers. Praise be to God.

---

Notes

I wrote this poem in 2001 as part of an art history class. The painting is located at the Toledo Art Museum. The poem has three parts and is told from the father's point of view. This was the first poem that I ever wrote in response to a painting. The poem is one of my longest ones; you can read it in one sitting or multiple sittings.

---

II

The life of a farmer
has not been easy.
I came to this country
when I was a mere boy.
My father, an honest man
seeking the freedom to
worship God as he wanted,
uprooted our family
from the German soil
and took us across
the vast ocean. The trip
was hard. There were days
I thought I was going
to die. I was often too sick
to eat. Shortly before we
landed in America, my younger
brother caught the fever
and died.  And my mother
never recovered from the pain
of her loss. She blamed
my father and denied him
the joys of the marriage bed.
She never took to this land
with its strange people and
even stranger customs.
The harsh life of clearing 
the fields and tilling the soil
did not suit her. She died
a few years after we settled
in Pennsylvania. I think about
her often—even more as the years pass.
My father uprooted us again
and moved on to Ohio.
I think he wanted to forget.
He blamed himself for
her death and that of his son.

When I turned eighteen,
I wanted adventure. I heard
there was great farmland
to be claimed on the prairie.
I took off on my own and
finally settled on a farm
in central Illinois. A small
conclave of the brethren
took me in and made me
feel at home. That is where
I met Sarah and fell head
over heels in love. She was
my angel, fallen from the sky,
sent by God to save
my wretched soul, to teach
me the lesson of love and
to free me from the loneliness.
I was smitten by her beauty,
her long brown hair
hanging to her waist,
those deep blue eyes,
a reminder of the ocean
I had crossed a child.

She was the oldest daughter
of Peter Schertz, a Bible-thumping
preacher, a devout Christian
if God ever made one.
Sarah was headstrong and full
of mischief and said to have
her father wrapped around
her little finger. I first saw her
in church, sitting in the front pew
with her mother and sisters.
I could only see the back of her
head, the long brown hair.
But I was hooked like a catfish
on the worm. I was a shy young
man in those days, and it took
months to work up the courage
to talk to her. She was a friendly
girl who talked to everybody
and everyone and even said
hello to shy old me. But she
 moved on to the next
person before I could stammer 
out my response. From early
childhood, I have been a stutterer.
For some reason, my brain and
my mouth never connected. I knew
what I wanted to say, but my mouth
could not make it happen. I dreamed
of her day and night as I tended to
the needs of my farm. I desired
to hold her in my arms, to tell
her that I loved her, that she was
everything I wanted in a woman.
And in my dreams, she always 
told me she loved me too.

My chance came at a picnic
for the young people in church.
I found myself alone with her,
and I struggled to say something.
When the words came out,
they came in starts and stops.
She waited patiently and did not
laugh. She smiled words of encouragement,
and asked me questions about myself.
Slowly the words came to me,
and I shared with her my hopes
and dreams. She listened and
seemed to understand and appreciate
me for who I was. One thing led
to another, and soon, I was courting
her with all my heart and soul.
I still remember the bundling—
lying next to her in bed with her family
in the next room. Some people
outside the church believe bundling
to be a strange and quaint custom
of the brethren, but it served its
purpose. It gave Sarah and me a chance
to be alone during the cold of winter
and yet protect her honor and virginity.

And then came the marriage. Just
her family and the congregation.
My family could not make the trip
from Ohio. Her father conducted
the ceremony. I still remember
the day—August 18, 1839—
a hot, humid summer day.
I rose at dawn to milk the cows,
gather the eggs, and slop the hogs.

Some of the ladies from church
had come over the day before
to clean, scrub, and decorate it.
They even sewed curtains for the windows.
I had never had curtains before.
I usually dress in the dark. Besides, 
my closest neighbor was several miles away.
But the ladies said curtains were important.
They also presented me with a quilt
they had made for our wedding bed.
Some of the brethren had come by
a week or so before and built us 
a new bed. My cabin had never looked 
so good. It reminded me of my mother. 
I had wanted to cry, but I knew 
the women would think me weak. 

I hitched up the horses to the buggy.
Then, I brought in several buckets
of spring water and filled the tub.
I scrubbed off layers and layers
of dirt, grime, and dung.
I was as clean as a whistle
and smelt good, too.
Then I dressed in my Sunday best.
Nothing too good for my Sarah.
I climbed into the buggy
and drove the seven miles
to her father’s house.
I kept thanking God
for my good fortune
and praying that Sarah
hadn’t changed her mind.

The ceremony was simple.
I was overcome with excitement
when I saw Sarah.
She looked as beautiful
as sunshine on a rainy day.
I stuttered through my vows,
with a little assistance
from my father-in-law.
I thought I saw a look
of disgust on his face,
but it was only for a second, then 
he was back to his cheerful self.
Sarah’s family was warm,
caring, and full of laughter.
I always felt comfortable in their midst.

Some of the more serious brethren
believed there was too much joy
floating around their house.
But Peter Schertz preached
that laughter was the holy voices
of the angels praising God.
Years later, part of the brethren
would leave and form a separate church
because Peter didn’t preach
enough hell and damnation.

But on our wedding day
there was plenty of joy to go around.
I believe that Peter had finally accepted
the fact that we loved each other
and wanted to get married.
He had resisted the notion
in the beginning, when
I was first courting Sarah.
I don’t think he felt that
I was good enough for
his beautiful daughter,
He wanted someone who was
better educated and less shy.
Someone who didn’t stutter.
I think what finally won him over
was the kindness that he saw in my heart.
He knew I’d never lift a finger
to hurt his little girl, and he
realized that was more important
than all the book learning in the world.

After we had feasted on
roast beef, mashed potatoes and pie,
Sarah and I said our goodbyes.
Her goodbyes were long and tearful.
This was the first time she would
be away from her family
and she didn’t realize how difficult
it would be until the moment
of the departure arrived.
When we finally drove off,
Sarah kept looking back and waving.
And when she could no longer
see them, she kept looking anyway.

Finally, I stammered out
that I loved her and
that I hoped she would find
her new home to her liking.
I told her that I would
take good care of her
and that she shouldn’t worry.
She smiled her gentle smile
and kissed me on the cheek.
Suddenly, I felt all warm
and mushy inside.  I wanted
to stop the buggy and take her
into my arms.  But we were
crossing a small creek, and
it was too dangerous to stop.
By the time we reached the other side,
the moment had passed.
I took her hand in mine
and vowed that I would always love her
and that I would do anything
to make her happy.

The rest of the trip home
she chattered and sang
and laughed, asking me
questions about her new home —
she had never been there.
I visited her at her home.
She was eager to know more,
and she pestered me with questions
that I answered as best I could.
I was so excited to show her
the house that I left the horse
and buggy untethered.
Fortunately, the horse didn’t
wander off.  I scooped her up
in my arms and carried her 
across the threshold.
That first night, I felt as if
I had died and gone to heaven.
May God have mercy on my soul.

---

III

Sarah, my beautiful Sarah,
why do you haunt me
in the early morning hours
before the coming of the dawn?
I hear your voice calling me,
begging me to follow you
through the doorway of death
into the arms of Jesus.
I feel your hand as smooth as cornsilk
brushing the hair off my forehead
and caressing my thick beard
as you did so often
during our years together.
I see your warm smile light up
the dark, dank corners of my heart
and scare away the shadows
that have haunted my soul.

You were God’s gift to me.
And late at night, I often held
your supple body tight against me
to keep the demons at bay.
I often wonder how a simple farmer
like myself, could find so much love
in the warm touch of a woman.
Sometimes, I would wake up screaming
and you would take me in your arms
and I’d bury my face in your bosom
and the fears would slowly evaporate
like morning dew on the leaves of corn.

You gave up so much to stay with me.
You were smart enough to go to college
to become a teacher for the young.
I could never read or write
or figure as well as you.
I loved to hear you read
from the Good Book.
The sound of your voice
opened up the meanings
of the scripture and helped
me better understand what
God intended for our lives.

I am a humble farmer,
meant to serve the Maker
in his many shapes and forms.
You are a breath of spring air
on a cold winter’s day,
blowing through my troubled mind.
You freed me from the sins
that tormented my soul.
A farmer’s life can be tedious.
So much work to do.  Hard work.
Boring work.  Backbreaking work.
Mindless work.  Painful work.
And yet you did it all
without complaining
or ever raising your voice
to the children or me.

Sarah, my beautiful Sarah,
why do you haunt me
as I walk through the fields
of corn, checking the ears
to see when they will be ready 
for picking?  I have missed you 
so much  these twelve years
that you have been gone.
I’ve thought of remarrying
on several occasions but
never could bring myself to do it.
Don’t get me wrong.  Plenty of women
showed interest.  Widows, mostly,
seeking to replace their husbands.
My love for you is too strong.
I could not get you out of my mind.

The girls have moved on
with their lives.  Married
and having children of their own.
They come to visit when they can.
Only Jeremiah remains by my side,
your last gift to me.
He has grown into a strong lad
and is a tremendous help 
in my old age.  His sisters
taught him how to cook
so we often cook together.
He has your disposition
and the kindest heart
that you could find in a man.
And he works from sunup to sundown.
I’ve made sure he has learned
how to read and write and figure.
He can outfigure his old man.
He is very good with numbers.
And he loves to read.  Every morning
after breakfast, he reads the scripture
out loud as you used to do.
He spends as much time as he can
with your father, who is teaching him
God’s ways.  I hope that someday
he becomes a preacher like your father.

You would be proud of him.
He is the apple of my eye.
He has been my pillar of strength
during my darkest hours.
Good Lord, how I miss you, Sarah.
I have been visiting your gravesite
more often this past year.
I seem to miss you more now
than when you first died,
if that is possible.  You are in
my thoughts every moment
of every hour.  I want to come
home to be with you — to hold
you again in my arms, to feel
your lips on mine.  I pray
that God will soon grant me
my wish.  My time here,
I think, is short.  My body
grows weak with sorrow.
I do not have the strength of Job
to withstand the pain and suffering
that your death has caused me.

Sarah, my beautiful Sarah,
why do you haunt
my waking dreams
and visit me in my prayers?
I know that you will be
standing at the gates of heaven
waiting with open arms.
Forgive me, Sarah, for being so weak.
I wish I could be strong like other people
who are able to go on with their lives
and remarry.  I thought the pain
of your death would go away.
That time would be the big healer.
But time has only made my heart
grow fonder.  I love you more
today than the day you died.

Sarah, remember when we first were
married, and you had so many dreams
of things that you wanted to do
and places where you wanted to go.
Then the children came
and our lives were taken over
with the raising of a family
as well as the daily chores
of farming.  I am sorry that
I was not more attentive to
your needs.  That I did not find
a way for us to travel more.
There are so many things that
I am sorry for.  My jealousy, for
one.  I worried that someone
would steal your heart.  I was
always watching you for any
sign that you loved another.
I never said anything to you,
but my moodiness was often
jealousy in disguise.  You
tolerated my grouchiness
and my temper.  I am sorry
for any pain I caused you.

Sarah, my beautiful Sarah,
why do you haunt me?
I hear your voice calling:
“Come home!  Come home!”
May God have mercy on my soul!

---

Notes on Eastman Johnson:

• Born in 1824 in Lovell, Maine.

• Son of a tavern owner and local postmaster.

• Was taught the rudiments of drawing in high school.

• When he was 22, he painted portraits of John Quincy Adams, Daniel Webster, and Dolly Madison. He also painted Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

• Traveled to Europe when he was 25. Studied art in Dusseldorf, Germany.

• Spent four years in the Hague, where he studied the Dutch Masters.

• He painted some of his best paintings between 1860 and 1880. He became one of America’s best genre painters. He combined h

• is European training with American subject matter.

• He married at the age of 45 and had one child.

• Eastman died on April 5, 1906.