If you’ve ever walked deep into a cornfield when the stalks are taller than your head, it’s easy to feel claustrophobic and panicky, lost and alone in a sea of dark green. Overwhelmed by the writing task at hand, I turn to Grandma Jensen’s old saying and find my way.
On the first day of second grade, I felt sick to my stomach.
I stood with my two older sisters at the end of the long gravel driveway to our farm, waiting for the bus to pick us up and take us to school in nearby Gilbert, Iowa. It was the fall of 1977, my new teacher was Miss Marjorie Bly, and I wondered what I had done to deserve such a horrible fate.