Lake living for the landlocked

I know it's a cornfield, but I'm a homesick Michigander at sunset.

I grew up in Michigan’s lower peninsula, which is a hand mittened by the Great Lakes, freckled with inland lakes, and veined with rivers. The state line functions as the wrist, the crossroads to the landlocked.

Recently, my husband took a job with the landlocked.

For three months, we lived apart, one or the other crossing the wrist for weekend visits. When it was my turn to make the trek, I was overwhelmed by the difference. Illinois was mostly prairie and farms – flat and structured, while Michigan was mostly woods and water – wild and messy.

It was no contest which I preferred.

We bought a simple home in Illinois, which I only saw on a map before closing. It was near the Sangamon River, which appeared as fine blue cursive on an otherwise clean page. The home’s biggest selling point, besides being available, was a large maple tree in the back and an even larger oak tree in the front. I read a little Michigan into these facts until my godson Google-Earthed the address.

“Are you by the cornfield or the bean field?”

Sigh.

Google Earth hadn’t lie. When I finally joined my husband, I saw fields everywhere, including a massive one butting up against our neighborhood. The first time I walked to this field, it had been freshly plowed. I had never seen soil so dark. I watched the sun set over this black ground for what felt like forever. Epic sunrises and sunsets are normal here, as if the Earth really was flat.

A few weeks later, I had an answer for my godson. We were by the cornfield.

We have cornfields in Michigan, but not like this. This corn grew at an alarming rate, like a take-a-photo-and-send-it-to-your-family rate. Every week it was significantly taller. Sometimes, every night. Going to this neighborhood field became my daily check-in, a real-time magic trick.

We have a trail by our home, straight, flat, and lined with mature trees. It was a thin, orderly wood, but a wood all the same. We took to biking it after dinner in an attempt to acclimate.

On a recent ride, the sun was starting its evening cabaret. The sky became a canvas of color, the trees became dark silhouettes. An odd familiarity came over me. I had seen this breathtaking sight before, yet I couldn’t place where.

A sudden desire to see the cornfield overtook me.

We peddled fast, so as not to miss the show. And it was a show. A mosaic of clouds formed intricate patterns, tinted every shade between baby blue and darkest gold. A breeze stirred the wall of plants, which seemed to tickle the clouds in long-fingered swipes. We lapsed into silent awe, bikes at our hips.

The feeling of familiarity returned, but this time I knew it. I’ve witnessed this unlimited sky over the Great Lakes, for where else can a Michigander get an unbroken horizon?

It struck me the cornstalks moved like water under the wind's command – rolling together in lumbering lines that extended beyond our sight. Closing my eyes, I leaned into this unlikely parallel, hearing a rhythmical hum, not unlike the push and pull of water.

Sure, it was more green than blue, but it would do.

My watery soul wasn’t lost on this prairie.