He was just Clark. And Martha was just his mom. And that was more than enough.
“Then you stay tired here,” she said. “The world’s problems are heavy. But so is a sack of potatoes, and right now, I need you to carry one in from the cellar.” clarkandmartha
The corn was high that summer, higher than Clark Kent remembered it ever getting back when he was a boy. He stood on the porch of the Kansas farmhouse, the screen door whining softly behind him, and watched the amber waves ripple under a sky so blue it looked painted. He was just Clark
Martha dusted her hands on her apron. “I know. I was gonna call the Miller boy down the road. But since you’re here, and you can see the microscopic stress fractures in a bolt from a hundred yards…” She looked up at him, her blue eyes sharp and loving. “Maybe you could just tighten it without, you know, turning it into a pretzel.” “Then you stay tired here,” she said