“Damn rain.”
Wilbur gazed out of the windshield of his old Ford F100 pickup. Homer sat in the passenger seat, finishing his third box of Cracker Jack. He replied to Wilbur’s forlorn comment.
“What we gonna do, Wilbur? Sure is pretty wet and muddy.”
They both stared down the road toward the corncrib that sat along the old highway into Havana, Illinois. The rains hadn’t let up for two weeks, with no end in sight.
Homer opened the side window and spit a wad of chew onto the shoulder. “Ain’t seen rain like this since that awful April we spent in Korea. Harvest ain’t looking too good.”
The fields were a quagmire of mud and weeds and drowned rats. Rivulets of dank brown water flowed around the crib and the grey sky appeared opaque from the ongoing deluge. The harvest was indeed in trouble.
“What are we gonna do?” Homer asked while looking at the surrounding acres of close-to-mature corn stalks.
“Ain’t much we can do? Can’t get our combines in the fields. They’d stick to the mud like gnats on flypaper. And even if we could harvest the corn, it would surely turn rotten in that old corncrib. That thing has more holes in it than a politician’s alibi.”
Homer again looked out at the fields. “If we can get it picked and if we do, we can’t store it, we’re kind of fu . . . “.
“Watch your language, Homer. It’s Sunday, you know.” Wilber interjected.
“So now what?” Homer asked one more time.
Wilber had a look of sorrow on his face. “Think I’ll go to Arizona for a spell. Don’t never rain down there. In a few weeks, the rain will stop and we can plow the fields over and hope for a better crop next year.”
Wilber took one more look at the fields, spit one more long draw of tobacco out the window, started the old truck, and pulled onto the highway. He shook his head and mumbled quietly.
“Damn rain.”
- Wilbur and Homer are characters from The Rats of Plainville, a story from my first book, also titled The Rats of Plainville: Tales from the Heartland.