Past the river in Mississippi, past the muddy shores, and past the thick bramble bushes, if you keep pushing through the thin trees that keep the sun out, through the humid air, you’ll reach a sunny land full of farms, sprawling low hills, and open skies, its expanse interrupted only by the long, low, fences that separate the farms owned by different families.
If you walk due west of that river, from the very biggest tree with those branches that look like a sectional sofa, spreading out over that perfect marshy area? The one with the beach that’s hardly muddy at all, with that little log you can sit out over the water on and dip your dusty feet in the running water? Yeah. Walk straight west about 1/3 of a mile from that, and you’ll reach the old Williamson farm. Don’t go walking straight up to that big red door! No, they won’t like that all. Instead, look to the left of the door and follow that low white fence around the corner, past the chicken coop, and turn away from the property until you see the oasis we’re all looking for in this dusty farmland. It’s just a patch, about 10 feet by 15, and it’s not fenced in and sometimes it’s kinda hidden behind wheelbarrows, and tractors, and stuff. But here, you’ll find what summer is all about.
The Williamsons surely aren’t a social people, they’re the kind of folks who wouldn’t even say hello to you on the street, even if you’d met at church a hundred times before, but what they do have is a beautiful tradition. They keep this watermelon patch, this beautiful prolific garden, a trampoline made up of thick vines and enormous striped green balloons laying rolled up right next to each other on the ground. They keep it, and they share it. They wouldn’t tell you to take any, granted, ‘cause no way would they have that long of a conversation with you, but it’s an unspoken ritual here. Every generation of kids will find their way on the very hottest days to this patch of watermelons, kept shaded - not hidden - by all the big farm equipment in front of it, so it is always somehow deep cold on the inside, even if your skin is steaming to the touch. Man, these watermelons are about the most generous gift someone could give you on these long dreadful days, and the Williamsons gave ‘em silently and gladly, but the clueless kids would always giggle at each other about their differentness and shriek and run away if they heard ‘em coming up close during one of their feasts.
A watermelon’s rind is thick, a protective barrier, like a home built many centuries ago with care, and real, honest, hardy materials, not like the shoddy throw-em-up shacks of today. Akin to a turtle’s shell, the rind keeps the fragile life within safe from harsh elements, stomping feet, and possible predators. You even knock on the rind, like a door, to see if anyone’s home. Not like today, where you pull up outside someone’s house and just text ‘em, “here.” “coming.”
Yes, a watermelon is a well built fruit. Meant to last, and it will, and the reward they offer is the most luscious, hydrating, dessert in nature. But despite the solid home they come ensconced in, once their insides are exposed, they have a short time to thrive on earth. Not just ‘cause of little eager jaws, chomping towards them to taste their sugary juices faster, but for the delicacy of their underbellies, their vulnerable softness. Just minute after greeting the air with their vibrant red optimism, the watermelon begins to lose its saturation, it is still technically red, but quickly develops an unsettling whitish-gray pallor. The texture changes from a satisfying crunch to a uniform mealiness, as the separation between the nectar and the rigid cell walls dissolves.
Just earlier today, I had a tangerine from someone’s personal garden, brought to me as a gift. I hadn’t had a well-loved tangerine in a little bit, and I dug right into the skin with the tip of my thumb, exerting a certain amount of pressure, the kind of pressure required by the very thick skin of a jaded grocery store citrus. Imagine my surprise, when instead of requiring further digging, the whisper thin exterior gave way immediately to the most solidly citrus, tangy but saccharine segments. My thumbnail punctured one wedge in my hastiness, and the liquids gushed over my finger, necessitating instant clean up. Sucking the juice off my hand, I knew from the first hit on my tastebuds that this was a tangerine worthy of my undivided attention. Though eager to meet the outside and show itself to me, literally gushing over in enthusiasm, this was a perfectly matured, healthy fruit, ripe for the picking, and picked at its prime.
It was really delicious, an instant hit of health and good juju, but now that I’m remembering back to those summers in Mississippi, it makes me think about what’s more satisfying in the long run, the watermelon or the tangerine? The delicate sweet hidden behind wall so thick that you need to carry a knife with you the whole day at the mere prospect of cutting one open? Or the instant gratification of an easy to access citrus, available with no fanfare, and gone in a moment? Seems to me, now, looking back, that half the fun was the anticipation. Tiptoeing past the front of the house, even though you knew it was okay, clutching each other’s little sweaty hands as you broke into a run once you got past the chicken coop, and knocking on every single watermelon, picking out the perfect match for you on that day. Gettin’ the day’s designated knife carrier to pull it out and one, two, three, WHACK it open. And then dividing into slices just too big to eat without dripping the juices all down your chin, and sitting in the shade of that big rusty tractor, eating it, tasting all the sweeter for feeling just a little bit naughty. You ate fast, ‘cause you’d wanna run before you’d ever wanna talk to ol’ Williamson, who had a habit of just standing there with his arms crossed and lookin’ at you like he’d never seen another person before, while you stammered something about your momma and daddy sayin’ hey. You ate so fast, you never did see that beautiful red melon meat turn to mush.
It’s funny how we eat like that, food and other things. We see something beautiful and perfect and beckoning, ripe for the pickin’… we might circle back and forth to see if we can talk ourselves out of wanting it. But I know me, once I want something, there’s no changing my mind. You might tiptoe, and delay, and once you get there feel it out, knock on a couple of options. And then when it’s in our grasp, when what we’ve had our eye on this whole time is ours for the enjoyment, we gobble it up before we even see what would happen if we slowed down.
I found out something just recently from my Mom, during one of our gabby phone conversations… I think I was eating some pre-sliced watermelon slices from Trader Joe’s, and brought up to her how even though I like how temperate it stays here in California, I sometimes get nostalgic over those long dusty summers in Mississippi, and how the very best moments were out on the Williamson’s farm eating fresh cold melons with my little gang… Mom told me that Mrs. Williamson had started staying and helping out at church, after her husband passed away last year. I guess they’d got to talking, and my Mom told her how in her day, she and her friends used to sneak the watermelons, and how me and my brother’d followed in her footsteps the whole time we were growing up there. What she told Mom then, was that I guess she and Mr. Williamson had always wanted a whole mess of kids growing up, and were gonna have one but something happened medically, where she lost the baby and couldn’t have more, so being around kids always made them pretty sad, but that they loved it more than anything. They decided to grow a watermelon patch on purpose, so there’d be young folks on their property all summer, and they would listen to us chatting, and chewing, and plotting, and living, and they’d stand out of the way where we wouldn’t notice and just smile to hear our fun.
It became their favorite thing, I guess, and Mrs. Williamson went on and told my Mom that even after he was pretty sick, Mr. Williamson, in his last few summers, would wake up early before the sun got too hot, and turn over and tend to the melons, laying them out so the best ones were easiest to get to, so the kids would be sure to have a good time whenever they came to eat.
Mom and I were both quiet for a little after she told me this. Then she collected herself and with a lot of forced pizzazz in her voice, said you know, I think I’ll invite Mrs. Williamson for dinner this Sunday. Mom told me to have a great week, and to be safe, like she always does, and then she hung up. I finished eating my watermelon right after we got off the phone, but didn’t ever finish thinking about the Williamsons, and how important they and their melon patch were to my childhood. I just hope Mr. Williamson knew that even though he tried to make himself obscure, hard to locate, impossible to adore, what he did for dozens and dozens of other kids, and me, has made him one of the most loved men I know.
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