With all the rain we’ve gotten lately, from Beryl and various other low-pressure systems, the corn may well be as high as an elephant’s eye. My memories of the Grant Park Zoo, formed when I was considerably shorter than I am now, leave me a little vague as to how high that is exactly, but it is, I think, safe to assume, higher than my head and the corn is definitely that. When we were children, Keith, Aunt June and I used to run through the cornfield chasing each other and playing "Bonanza" while Mama, Daddy and Grannie broke the ears that would be cut and scraped and bagged and put into the freezer so that on every Sunday table for the coming year there would be a bowl of sweet creamy summer.