There were a bunch of us boys running around the farm back then.

I was the oldest, around thirteen. Charlie and Phil were the younger ones, and Reginald, Barry, and Gene were somewhere in between.

Which, as it turned out, didn’t mean we knew any better.

It was tobacco season, which meant mornings started early. We worked the fields around daybreak, and by early afternoon we were usually back at the house.

Dad and Uncle Obie worked second shift at Roadway Express in Kernersville as diesel
mechanics. So around one o’clock each day we’d all come in, Dad and Uncle Obie would get washed up, eat what we called dinner, and then head off to work.

Those afternoons?
They belonged to a bunch of boys in the woods.

There are two creeks on our property. One borders the east side and one borders the west. Most of the time we chose the one on the west side because it was bigger and seemed better suited for the kind of fishing we had in mind.

Now when I say fishing, don’t picture rods and reels.

Our equipment consisted of tobacco string or baling twine, a few hooks, and whatever stick we could find that looked about right for a fishing pole. Sometimes it was a tree branch. Sometimes a tobacco stick.

For bait we dug around the woodpile—the same pile of split wood stacked for the wood-burning stove in winter—because that’s where the worms and night crawlers liked to hide.

On this particular day, though, somebody had the bright idea that canned corn might work even better.

Which meant we had to involve Mom.

That conversation went about like you’d expect.

She read us the riot act.

“If any one of you comes back wet,” she said, “you are all getting a whooping.”

Stay out of the water.
Be careful.
You know better.

“Okay, Mama.”

Corn acquired, we headed down to the creek.

We were having a good time—the kind of time boys have in the woods. Out in the wild. Free of supervision. Important business.

Hooks.
String.
Sticks.
Corn.

And then it happened.

A big splash.

We all turned at the exact same time and said, in one voice:

“CHARLIE!”

Time stopped.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. We just stood there waiting for whatever came next.

Charlie looked up at us, soaked from head to toe, with the saddest expression you’ve ever seen on a boy.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t panic.

Then he said, quietly and sincerely:

“I was trying to get my corn.”

That was it.

No excuses.
No argument.
Just a statement of fact.

And just like that, it became legend.

For years afterward—years—anytime someone messed something up or found themselves in trouble, the rest of us would say:

“I was trying to get my corn.”

I don’t remember if we all got a whooping that day.

I don’t even remember if we tried to explain the situation to the judge, jury, and executioner — also known as Mom.

But I do remember this.

Charlie wasn’t being reckless.
He wasn’t being disobedient.
He wasn’t even being careless.

He was just trying to get his corn.

And sometimes, that’s how trouble finds you.

At least, that’s how I remember it.