An August Memory

I bought a watermelon at the farmers market this past weekend. I finally got around to cutting it open this evening. As I sliced through the thick green skin, the bright red juiciness inside flooded me with memories. I’m running next door with my brother, with a dollar in hand, entrusted to us by our grandpa. We are headed toward the big farm house with the sign tacked onto one of the big shade tress in front: Watermelons for Sale: 2 for $1. My Granny and Grandpa’s neighbor grew them in his vast fields. My grandparents also had a few watermelons in their garden, but nothing like their neighbor. He was a real farmer and had a field of them.

We cradled our icy burdens in our bare, sun soaked arms and walked back to our grandparents, carefully so as not to drop our big prizes. Up on the wooden table in yard, granny would take a huge knife and skillfully slice it so that the two pieces fell away from the other. We would then start calling our pieces: That one is mine! No, it’s mine!
Granny always assured us that we would have a piece but that wasn’t what this was about. It was being the first to sink our teeth into a cold, juicy slice of watermelon.

We didn’t use forks or knives like the grownups. We put our faces into it and wiped the dampness off our faces with the back of our arms. My mother would call us heathens. I always thought it was a compliment.

My older sister and I would debate. She liked the rime; I didn’t. She would extol the merits of the pulpiness. I would turn my nose up and grimace. I told her she was crazy. And she told me I was a heathen. I loved being a heathen.

So, I finish slicing my watermelon, putting some in a dish to eat while I’m typing on the computer. Of course, I use a spoon, like a grown up. The rest goes into a plastic container. As I close the refrigerator door, the memory goes out with the light.