The old farmer used to sit in the white folding chair, his wife – he called her “Mother” – sat with him in the stand towards the end, he couldn’t see well enough to count out change, so he would relay the purchase to her, he would say “five ears, Mother,” and she would take the money and meticulously count out the change from a box she carried in her lap.

For many years, the farmer did that himself, until he could not see well enough or hear. He sat in his farmstead in July – his corn was fresh and delicious and popular – and he charged 50 cents an ear. He was a bit dour, he was friendly enough, but not into chatting much.

In July and August, he could always been found in the stand during the day, taking a break for lunch, his farmhouse was just across the road. I was startled to see how frail and weak he was last year, but he was in the stand every day throughout the corn growing season.

I knew that one way or another, it would be his last. I was touched at the gentleness and affection between he and mother, he told me he had been married for more than 50 years. This year, the stand is abandoned, his chair and Mother’s sit on a pile of corn husks, farm hands used to bring the corn to the stand all day, freshly picked, sold on the same day.

One of these days, I will run into someone who will know what happened to the old farmer – is he too ill to run his stand, did he die, or has he been moved somewhere else. I thought he was quite brave to come to his stand every day last year, he seemed to be in great pain.

Today I stopped by the stand and was touched to see his chair next to Mother’s, close to where I had last seen them, up front, next to the piles of corn and their cash box and Irises, which sold for $5 a half dozen. I would buy a dozen ears and Irises for Maria. I miss the farmer and his wife in the old stand, I am thinking of them this time of year.

Driving by, it feels like t here is a hole in the earth, waiting to be filled. There are  not too many more like them.