Growing up on a farm included chores. One of those chores was walking the cow’s home each evening to milk them. Before my brother and I were deemed old enough to walk them home ourselves, our father would occasionally take us along.
He was running late one hot summer evening and decided to take a short cut through a soon to be harvested wheat field to get to the pasture where the cows were grazing. He told me and my little brother to stay behind. We waited until he was out of sight, grabbed each others hands and followed him anyway. Soon the wheat was over our heads and I lost the grip on my brother’s hand. I hear him crying and I push my way through the billowing wheat trying to find him. It was futile so I resorted to calling for help.
Suddenly, I am lifted off the ground by two strong arms. Our father had heard our cries for help. He carried the two of us through the wheat and deposited us at the end of field with strict instructions to go directly home.
We feared a reprimand and a spanking but it never happened.
We also never followed him again into a field of wheat.