<< Back 11/6/02 Stalking metaphorical truths in Swain County By Jay Hardwig I’ve wanted to go to a corn maze ever since I first heard about them. The phrase “corn maze” is quite literal — it is a maze, cut into a cornfield — and whenever I drive past one it seems to whisper sweetly to me, promising that combination that I hold so dear: somewhat enjoyable, somewhat absurd. Earthy, artificial, hokey, and plain, the corn maze mixes the homespun charm of an aw-shucks American innocence with the dark mystery of the European crop circles. Joe Bob meets the minotaur, that sort of thing. How could I resist? The maze I chose was run by Darnell Farms, a farm-and-family-fun enterprise on the banks of the Tuckasegee River, not far from Bryson City. The maze this year — designed by Nathaniel Darnell and cut when the corn was short — was a nod to mountain heritage. “Bustin’ Sod,” it was called, and when seen from above, the outlines of a farmer and handplow emerge. Or so they tell me. Enjoying the concept of the corn maze is one thing; enjoying the experience of a corn maze is quite another. If I went to the maze thinking it would be fun for me and Eli, I must not have been paying much attention. Fun for me usually includes cold beer, serrano peppers, and/or a walking bass line; fun for Eli usually involves big yellow slides, little red wagons, and/or hanging household items on the cat. Still, it was outdoors, and last Saturday, outdoors was a good place to be. We paid our five bucks, grabbed a sheet of numbered clues, and plunged into the corn maze with relative abandon and good cheer. We did not make much progress at first. Being a city boy, Eli had never seen a corn plant, an oversight we corrected in a very big way. He got quite intrigued by the magical relationship between corn stalk, corn ear, and corn kernel. It was a good learning experience, I’ll admit — PBS would kill for such material — but a corn maze is not a great place to go if your boy is easily distracted by corn. Eli stopped every 10 feet to point out corn kernels, and then corn ears, and finally corn stalks. He talked happily of corn, and even sang a song of his own design, for which the entire lyrical content consisted of the word “corn,” repeated endlessly and with slight variations in pitch. I try to be supportive of my boy, but quite frankly I found the tune a touch repetitive. Things picked up after a while, as we made our way with increasing purpose over the lumpy husk-riddled ground. Our efforts to solve the clues and limn the mysteries of the maze were hampered somewhat by the fact that most of the relevant signs had been removed; instead of proceeding by design, we were left to wander aimlessly through the high corn. That in itself was not a terrible experience; it was a beautiful fall afternoon, and there was something slightly calming about the monotony of the view. I must say that, while the corn was novel, the maze was not, at least from Eli’s point of view. The operating principle of any maze is that there are many possible routes; it is difficult to know which is the best way to go. Without firm clues, you throw up your hands and head in whichever direction feels most whimsical or adventurous or prudent or alive. This is precisely how Eli tackles the city streets, and indeed much of his life. There are many ways in which the first two years of Eli’s life has been one giant maze; there are ways in which the next 90 will be as well. That said, we don’t all come to the maze with the same information. I was armed with concrete clues, as well as a general sense of direction earned over 32 years of wandering. Eli had neither. As such, we came to a number of disagreements about which way to turn: I, calling on deductive logic and a wealth of experience, urged one direction; Eli, calling on something more elemental, urged another. It is tempting here to draw the conclusion that Eli’s path may have been more enchanting, but that’s too easy. Either way, we would have been walking through tall corn. But as metaphor — and Lord knows I like to pull a metaphor out of each of these adventures — it has some use. The corn maze reminded me how important it is to let Eli choose his own way, even if it is a way I would not choose myself. At times, I must let him go where he wishes, even if I know it will only lead him deeper into the thicket. Just so, there are times I must guide him. This may mean a gentle tap on the shoulders and a nod in a new direction, or I may have to lend a firmer hand. There is no proven formula, and the surest and quickest route is not always the best. This, then, is my task: to make sure Eli makes it out of the maze safely, without dictating his path. Of course, that’s the metaphorical, metaphysical maze: last Saturday, we were in the real and rather husky corn maze, and the afternoon was growing long. After 45 minutes wandering amongst the stalks, even Eli had grown tired of corn; for myself, I knew that the Tennessee-South Carolina game was getting set to kickoff, and when that happened, I had no desire to be wrangling over metaphors in a Swain County cornfield. I picked up Eli and we charged out of the maze, this time taking the surest and quickest route. It felt good. There will be plenty more mazes to come, and plenty of time to explore them. The Vols won, 18-10. (Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher who lives in Asheville. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)