Personal Narrative: Durin During My Drive Home

Turning autumn leaves descend upon the firm October soil; cool, crisp air infiltrates my nostrils with cinnamon scents, Grandma's famous pumpkin rolls, and incomparable to them all - harvested crops. These harvest aromas occupy the October air and stimulate the senses from my childhood. Memories of my combine commutes replay in my head like a broken record; my tiny feet dangle over the petite passenger seat as the equipment head seizes my sights. Time transcends, and I return today as Dad and I pack ourselves like sardines in the combine's cab. During these precious few minutes, we converse during the hectic harvest season. Throughout my trek to my car, I inscribe my minuscule prints in the seeping, muddy field as crunching corn stalks and cracking leaves envelope the still October night.
The farmers' hands, stained with dirt, grease, oil, and toil, illustrate the long hours, boundless passion, and devoted determination exerted to provide for families while sacrificing time with their own. These crop cultivators brim with knowledge, share the same obsession about weather and time, and walk on a tightrope during the long, scorching summer. The agricultural world never provides any guarantees for these preserving laborers; therefore, some may ask, "Why be a farmer?" The passion, desire, and expression across all farming families convey a response where no words need to be spoken - a family