My husband and I have climbed from our pickup to watch a red combine cross a cornfield between steep Palouse hills, a swath of stubble in its wake. When he spots us, a farmer friend slows the mighty machine, climbs from the cab, and waves. We wade to him through nine-foot stalks to talk moisture readings and earthworms, crop size and his newborn baby boy. He wrenches a fat cob from a standing stalk, strips the husk, and rubs dried kernels of seed corn into his palm.



