I did a lot of driving today, back and forth between Vinton and Cedar Rapids, ferrying our new corps members to our site from the airport. It was funny to see my home through the eyes of a bunch of 18-24 year olds from all over the U.S.I think this is what they saw. Corn. Farms. I told them the corn was not high enough, that it should be six feet tall by now. I told them pithy things about local lore. Corn. That's what they heard, as though Charlie Brown's teacher (wah, wah, wah, wah!) finally said just one intelligible word: Corn. Jesus, look at all that corn! Shit.
They seem to be a great bunch of young people, full of juice and ready for a new adventure serving their country and facing challenges. I remember when I felt like that, all full of human potential and bulletproof. Now it's more about ducking metaphorical bullets and staying flexible. I don't mess much with my potential.
When I was eighteen, I secretly thought I would probably end up famous. Now I think I'm about as famous as I'm going to be.
So I tried to explain that we were driving along the Lincoln Highway, the first transcontinental highway, once a rutted dirt road, barely graded, that brave adventurers negotiated with spindly wheeled Fords. At the end of each day's ride, there was a roadhouse, with gas, food, and little cabins out back, some with indoor plumbing. As we turned at the Youngville Cafe, said roadhouse, and went north on 218, I heard a kid say "Damn. Look at all that corn."
One of the Team Leaders said "This is where we saw the tornado last week!"
That got their attention.
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