When we decided we wanted to move to Wisconsin last year, but long before we had the means to do so, I booked a camping reservation at Devil’s Lake State Park for the end of May, 2023–10 months in the future. Classic case of manifesting. Act like you’re already living there and the Universe can’t help but acknowledge that. Obviously it worked, because a few months later, I got the TobacCo job offer.
Only we never actually went camping. When the end of May rolled around, I cancelled the reservation. We just had too much going on: we’d only been in the house a couple of months and were still unpacking and organizing, my parents were coming out for a visit, there were new cats demanding our company, yadda yadda.
To make up for that, I booked a spot at a different state park closer to home for August 18-20. We average two camping trips most years but hadn’t been since 2021, seeing as how we were kinda busy manifesting, and then actually moving, last year. Suffice it to say, we were pretty excited.
And then Friday night happened.
We were sitting out on our deck after dark, kicking back, watching the fireflies, enjoying the calm before the storm. The day had dawned with one of those foreboding red skies that indicates bad weather ahead.
It was super warm and humid. I was sitting there, sweating in the dark, doused in OFF! to keep the mosquitoes at bay, and started thinking about how uncomfortable our camping trip was likely to be. Sitting around a campfire roasting s’mores is no fun when it’s 78º and muggy. Add in the biting bugs, and suddenly, home sweet home sounded a lot more appealing. So, I cancelled the reservation and rebooked the same site for next May. Hopefully, third time’s a charm!
At least then the corn won’t be sweating.
The first time Tara told me about corn sweat, I thought she was pulling my leg.
“Corn pops when it gets hot,” I said. “It doesn’t sweat!” But much to my a-maizement, there was a kernel of truth to Tara’s words.
Corn sweat, or evapotranspiraton if you want to get scientific, is a Midwest phenomenon that occurs when corn and soybean crops draw moisture from the ground through their roots into their leaves, stems, and fruits. The water evaporates into the surrounding air, causing humidity that rivals the deep South. One acre of corn can release 4,000 gallons of water per day, making the heat index skyrocket. Corn sweat peaks when the stalks reach their “tasseling” phase 80-90 days after planting, from mid-July to August.
I’ve joked that I should become a science teacher because of all these interesting knowledge drops I’ve been providing y’all. You’re welcome.
By the way, sure enough, a round of strong thunderstorms rolled through later Friday night. Thankfully not as destructive as the ones that hit Fort Atkinson two weeks earlier.
Yesterday, looking for something fun to do that would get us out of the house for a few hours, we decided to drive to Lake Geneva. There was a record store I wanted to check out, and Tara suggested a stop at Northwind Perennial Farm in neighboring Burlington. I don’t get excited over plants and flowers the way that my dear wife does, but I have to admit, strolling the grounds is a real treat. The landscaping is beautiful, with little pops of color everywhere, and a few surprises tucked away that you might walk right by if you aren’t paying attention.
After killing an hour there, we drove the 10 minutes to Lake Geneva, where we ran into the usual thick crowds. Lake Geneva is basically a tourist hub for FIBs…err, Illinois residents…who like to escape the Chicago madness, I guess? We hit Black Circle Records, enjoyed a giant pretzel and beers from Topsy Turvy Brewery, and walked down to the lake.
Hard to believe the last time we were there, we walked on it.
What a difference six months makes.
Mark My Words 
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