The Lizard
Late one night as I was binge watching “Reign” on Netfix, I heard a rustling sound coming from the kitchen. Usually, I brush off sounds without fretting about the source, but this was too loud to ignore. I walked through the kitchen, looking but hoping not to find anything too large to conquer. When I didn’t find a source for the noise, I went back to the TV and my recliner. Then I heard it again.
From my chair I can see the major part of the kitchen, so I glanced through the dividing doors and there it was, staring at me. A lizard! I am not comfortable with lizards or snakes, no matter how innocent they may be; so I lower my chair and looked for a weapon close at hand. I could find nothing but a magazine. By the time I rolled up a magazine and bent over to kill the creature, it would be gone and then I would have to search for it. I put down the magazine and tiptoed to the utility room for a broom. By the time I got back in sight of the lizard’s spot, it was gone. Now I had a real problem. A lizard is one thing but a hidden lizard brings on a new set of problems. I was not going to be able to go to bed with a loose lizard in the house.
I sat with my broom and waited for the lizard to reappear, but it was smart. I don’t know where it was hiding, but it wasn’t coming out. I could either sit up all night watching for it or go to bed and hope it found its way outside. How it got in was another of my concerns, but if it got in maybe it could remember how to get out. With that thought satisfying me, I went to bed and tried to forget about the lizard.
The next morning when I went to the kitchen to make coffee, there it was. Right in the middle of the floor, staring at me again. Our eyes met and mine signaled I wasn’t through with him. With broom in hand, I began to swat at him and he headed for the floor vent. Half way in with nothing but its tail in view, I had a choice. I could grab its tail and throw him out the door or hope he goes through the vent. I didn’t want to touch it.
He backed out of the vent and slithered toward the breakfast area where I planned to corner him. The limp broom was not stout enough for killing, so I picked up my floor steamer and once cornered him, I blotted him out like a rubber stamp. Wham! The tail danced across the floor while the body went belly up with its blue stomach in sight. I swept both out the back door.
When Guy called home from his business trip, I told him about the lizard. “It wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said. This was coming from a man who would push me in front of a snake.
Any child would have caught the lizard and thrown it out the door to reunite with its family. However, the only good lizard for me is a dead one.
Late one night as I was binge watching “Reign” on Netfix, I heard a rustling sound coming from the kitchen. Usually, I brush off sounds without fretting about the source, but this was too loud to ignore. I walked through the kitchen, looking but hoping not to find anything too large to conquer. When I didn’t find a source for the noise, I went back to the TV and my recliner. Then I heard it again.
From my chair I can see the major part of the kitchen, so I glanced through the dividing doors and there it was, staring at me. A lizard! I am not comfortable with lizards or snakes, no matter how innocent they may be; so I lower my chair and looked for a weapon close at hand. I could find nothing but a magazine. By the time I rolled up a magazine and bent over to kill the creature, it would be gone and then I would have to search for it. I put down the magazine and tiptoed to the utility room for a broom. By the time I got back in sight of the lizard’s spot, it was gone. Now I had a real problem. A lizard is one thing but a hidden lizard brings on a new set of problems. I was not going to be able to go to bed with a loose lizard in the house.
I sat with my broom and waited for the lizard to reappear, but it was smart. I don’t know where it was hiding, but it wasn’t coming out. I could either sit up all night watching for it or go to bed and hope it found its way outside. How it got in was another of my concerns, but if it got in maybe it could remember how to get out. With that thought satisfying me, I went to bed and tried to forget about the lizard.
The next morning when I went to the kitchen to make coffee, there it was. Right in the middle of the floor, staring at me again. Our eyes met and mine signaled I wasn’t through with him. With broom in hand, I began to swat at him and he headed for the floor vent. Half way in with nothing but its tail in view, I had a choice. I could grab its tail and throw him out the door or hope he goes through the vent. I didn’t want to touch it.
He backed out of the vent and slithered toward the breakfast area where I planned to corner him. The limp broom was not stout enough for killing, so I picked up my floor steamer and once cornered him, I blotted him out like a rubber stamp. Wham! The tail danced across the floor while the body went belly up with its blue stomach in sight. I swept both out the back door.
When Guy called home from his business trip, I told him about the lizard. “It wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said. This was coming from a man who would push me in front of a snake.
Any child would have caught the lizard and thrown it out the door to reunite with its family. However, the only good lizard for me is a dead one.
A Johnny Rodrigouez Spotting
Almost every time I travel by plane, I have a celebrity spotting. This time, however, Guy spotted first. We were coming home from his annual business trip to an industrial show in Las Vegas, and I noticed this guy who took a seat behind me but didn’t recognize him. He had “star power” in his looks, but so many travelers headed to Nashville have that look, especially if carrying a guitar.
Guy was sitting across the aisle from me, so when the flight ended Guy stood leaned over the man behind me and said, “Aren’t you Johnny Rodriguez?
“Yes, sir, I am.” They shook hands.
Guy told him how much he liked his music, especially “Desperado.” By then, I had joined the conversation when Guy asked him if he ever knew Lonzo and Oscar? Of course, he did and even hung out with them behind stage at the Opry. “I was so young,” he said, “that all those stars used me to be their runner. Later, I was playing with them on stages! They called me …. ant!” It was actually Bobby Bare and Tom T. Hall who encouraged him to come from Texas to Nashville after hearing him play. A small man in stature, but a giant in the music world, especially in the 70’s and 80’s, he recorded fifteen number one hits.
Guy continued, “Do you know the Kentucky Headhunters?” He lit up. “Of course I do. I’ve played with those guys.” He went on to describe Richard with the big hair and Fred with the sideburns. Then Guy told him I was their English teacher. “My favorite teacher was my English teacher,” he said.
He was in Nashville to do a host of TV interviews having just done a gig in Utah the night before. “Somebody who calls himself Mr. Nashville is interviewing me. I don’t know who he is, but he must be somebody special to call himself that.” Then he laughed all over. That was when Guy said, “You should do Carol’s radio show!”
“You have a radio show?” Suddenly I was famous.
“Yes, just a small station in Cave City.”
“I’ve been to Cave City,” he said. “Went through that Cave with a girl I was dating there. She dumped me.” He laughed again. (I think he has been married three times.) “That cave wasn’t very large best I remember.”
“You must have been in one of the smaller ones,” I said. “Maybe you just thought you were in Mammoth Cave!” He gave another big laugh.
“I would love to do your show. Just text me.” Then he wrote his cell phone number on a piece of paper I dug out of my purse. All of this occurred while we were waiting to get off the plane. Later, while waiting for our luggage, a nice young man came up and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you who you were talking to?” He didn’t know Johnny Rodriguez, but I told him to Google him.
Stars from his generation are still as dynamic as they once were. They have a string of hits that people like Guy and me still want to hear. At running the risk of sounding my age, most of these singers of the last ten years all sound alike. They have no specific sound the way Johnny Cash did or Willie Nelson or Dolly Parton or---Johnny Rodrigeuz.
I look forward to interviewing him and hope he answers his phone when I call.
Guy was sitting across the aisle from me, so when the flight ended Guy stood leaned over the man behind me and said, “Aren’t you Johnny Rodriguez?
“Yes, sir, I am.” They shook hands.
Guy told him how much he liked his music, especially “Desperado.” By then, I had joined the conversation when Guy asked him if he ever knew Lonzo and Oscar? Of course, he did and even hung out with them behind stage at the Opry. “I was so young,” he said, “that all those stars used me to be their runner. Later, I was playing with them on stages! They called me …. ant!” It was actually Bobby Bare and Tom T. Hall who encouraged him to come from Texas to Nashville after hearing him play. A small man in stature, but a giant in the music world, especially in the 70’s and 80’s, he recorded fifteen number one hits.
Guy continued, “Do you know the Kentucky Headhunters?” He lit up. “Of course I do. I’ve played with those guys.” He went on to describe Richard with the big hair and Fred with the sideburns. Then Guy told him I was their English teacher. “My favorite teacher was my English teacher,” he said.
He was in Nashville to do a host of TV interviews having just done a gig in Utah the night before. “Somebody who calls himself Mr. Nashville is interviewing me. I don’t know who he is, but he must be somebody special to call himself that.” Then he laughed all over. That was when Guy said, “You should do Carol’s radio show!”
“You have a radio show?” Suddenly I was famous.
“Yes, just a small station in Cave City.”
“I’ve been to Cave City,” he said. “Went through that Cave with a girl I was dating there. She dumped me.” He laughed again. (I think he has been married three times.) “That cave wasn’t very large best I remember.”
“You must have been in one of the smaller ones,” I said. “Maybe you just thought you were in Mammoth Cave!” He gave another big laugh.
“I would love to do your show. Just text me.” Then he wrote his cell phone number on a piece of paper I dug out of my purse. All of this occurred while we were waiting to get off the plane. Later, while waiting for our luggage, a nice young man came up and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you who you were talking to?” He didn’t know Johnny Rodriguez, but I told him to Google him.
Stars from his generation are still as dynamic as they once were. They have a string of hits that people like Guy and me still want to hear. At running the risk of sounding my age, most of these singers of the last ten years all sound alike. They have no specific sound the way Johnny Cash did or Willie Nelson or Dolly Parton or---Johnny Rodrigeuz.
I look forward to interviewing him and hope he answers his phone when I call.
A Serving of "Baloney" from my newspaper articles
As most who know him will attest to, Guy is usually a laid back kind of “guy.” Only when he has had it “up to here” does he lose his patience. This has happened twice in the last month, which concerns me that he might get stuck this way.
The first occurred on a business trip. He had gone into a chain restaurant for a steak. After being seated and studying the menu, he waited for his server. He waited and waited. He shuffled his menu, hoping to attract attention from one of the many servers he said were “just standing around.” After twenty minutes of being ignored, he laid the menu down and walked to the entrance where a friendly hostess asked how his meal was. After all, she evidently thought he had been there long enough to eat. Of course, this lit him like a firecracker.
“I’m sure it would have been a good one, but I was never waited on.”
“Oh sir, we’re so sorry. Please let us tend to you now.”
“I waited twenty minutes, so I don’t think I want to sit back down. I’ll go across the street where I’m sure they will appreciate my business.”
I said, “Guy, surely you didn’t say that.”
“I could have said more, but I decided I’d made my point.”
The servers probably gathered and talked about the rude man who said he didn’t get waited on for twenty minutes, doubting his story.
The next event occurred in my presence. We were in Bowling Green, and before going home I love to get “ice cream” at a certain place that boasts about making the food as it is ordered so it is fresh. I ordered my concoction while Guy asked for two scoops of chocolate. Nothing fancy for him! There were two cars ahead of us, so I knew by the time we reached the window he would be antsy. Waiting is not his forte.
Once to the window, the server handed my order to Guy and then handed him his two scoops. Guy looked at me in a childlike way and said, “Look how this is running down the sides.”
“Hand it back and tell her you want a new one.” It had obviously been dipped two cars back.
“This one is running down the cone; could you give me a new one?” He was nice to the server.
She took the cone and disappeared. In a few minutes, she came back with the same cone, which was by now running down on her hand. She said, “The manager said that all our chocolate melts like this.” I couldn’t believe any manager told a server to carry a melted ice cream cone back to a window and tell that to a customer.
Instead of asking to see the manager, which I would have done, Guy simply said, “I tell you what; you just keep the ice cream.” Off he drove, leaving the girl in the window quite perplexed. I felt sorry for her.
“Guy, you just drove off after paying for that ice cream!” I would never have done that.
“By then I didn’t want it.”
We later laughed about what the manager had told the poor girl to tell us. She knew that wasn’t the truth, and he knew all his chocolate didn’t come out of the tubs of ice cream in the frozen display-melted.
The older both of us get the less tolerance we have for baloney. What am I saying? We never have had much tolerance for baloney. The trouble is there is so much of it being served.
The first occurred on a business trip. He had gone into a chain restaurant for a steak. After being seated and studying the menu, he waited for his server. He waited and waited. He shuffled his menu, hoping to attract attention from one of the many servers he said were “just standing around.” After twenty minutes of being ignored, he laid the menu down and walked to the entrance where a friendly hostess asked how his meal was. After all, she evidently thought he had been there long enough to eat. Of course, this lit him like a firecracker.
“I’m sure it would have been a good one, but I was never waited on.”
“Oh sir, we’re so sorry. Please let us tend to you now.”
“I waited twenty minutes, so I don’t think I want to sit back down. I’ll go across the street where I’m sure they will appreciate my business.”
I said, “Guy, surely you didn’t say that.”
“I could have said more, but I decided I’d made my point.”
The servers probably gathered and talked about the rude man who said he didn’t get waited on for twenty minutes, doubting his story.
The next event occurred in my presence. We were in Bowling Green, and before going home I love to get “ice cream” at a certain place that boasts about making the food as it is ordered so it is fresh. I ordered my concoction while Guy asked for two scoops of chocolate. Nothing fancy for him! There were two cars ahead of us, so I knew by the time we reached the window he would be antsy. Waiting is not his forte.
Once to the window, the server handed my order to Guy and then handed him his two scoops. Guy looked at me in a childlike way and said, “Look how this is running down the sides.”
“Hand it back and tell her you want a new one.” It had obviously been dipped two cars back.
“This one is running down the cone; could you give me a new one?” He was nice to the server.
She took the cone and disappeared. In a few minutes, she came back with the same cone, which was by now running down on her hand. She said, “The manager said that all our chocolate melts like this.” I couldn’t believe any manager told a server to carry a melted ice cream cone back to a window and tell that to a customer.
Instead of asking to see the manager, which I would have done, Guy simply said, “I tell you what; you just keep the ice cream.” Off he drove, leaving the girl in the window quite perplexed. I felt sorry for her.
“Guy, you just drove off after paying for that ice cream!” I would never have done that.
“By then I didn’t want it.”
We later laughed about what the manager had told the poor girl to tell us. She knew that wasn’t the truth, and he knew all his chocolate didn’t come out of the tubs of ice cream in the frozen display-melted.
The older both of us get the less tolerance we have for baloney. What am I saying? We never have had much tolerance for baloney. The trouble is there is so much of it being served.
Looking for the Microwave from my Glasgow Daily Times Articles
Guy travels with his job so he most often will use Priceline for finding good deals on lodging. Most of the time he will end up in a Holiday Inn Express or an equivalent, but this time was a huge surprise. He would be staying at the Renaissance Resort at Ross Bridge in Birmingham. This just happens to be a famous course where the Champion Tour is played. Since he is a golfer, he was impressed to be right there where the seniors played. The area was also surrounded with shopping places in what was called The Village. I could see myself strolling from shop to shop. Instead, I was home watching a Hallmark movie.
When he came home he had a story to tell. He really didn’t want to tell me but it was just too good to keep. It is so good I need to share with you.
He had dined in a rather nice restaurant and returned to his room to watch TV. This is a typical night for Guy whether at home or on the road. Not the fine dining but the routine. His room was more like a small apartment. A refrigerator and sitting area and a kitchen area for the home away from home experience were more than he needed but once in awhile it is nice to be surrounded in luxury.
Around nine o’clock he is in the habit of having popcorn. He looked around but didn’t find any complimentary popcorn (I would assume the hotel management did not want the smell of popcorn wafting through the halls of their fine hotel) but that didn’t occur to Guy. What did occur to him was that he had saved a bag of microwave popcorn from another hotel at another time, so he happily retrieved it.
The microwave, according to Guy, was located above the refrigerator as many of them are in other hotels. He opened the door and put the bag inside but noticed that there was no “popcorn” button like we have at home on our microwave. “Around three minutes should do it,” he thought, so he pushed the three and two zeros. Then he looked for the start button but couldn’t find it.
“I knew I better get my glasses at this point if I wanted to see how to operate this thing,” he said, building up to the climax of the story. I was clueless where this was headed.
“I put on my glasses and went back to what I thought was the microwave but soon realized this wasn’t a microwave at all.”
Guy had tried to pop his popcorn in the room safe.
When he came home he had a story to tell. He really didn’t want to tell me but it was just too good to keep. It is so good I need to share with you.
He had dined in a rather nice restaurant and returned to his room to watch TV. This is a typical night for Guy whether at home or on the road. Not the fine dining but the routine. His room was more like a small apartment. A refrigerator and sitting area and a kitchen area for the home away from home experience were more than he needed but once in awhile it is nice to be surrounded in luxury.
Around nine o’clock he is in the habit of having popcorn. He looked around but didn’t find any complimentary popcorn (I would assume the hotel management did not want the smell of popcorn wafting through the halls of their fine hotel) but that didn’t occur to Guy. What did occur to him was that he had saved a bag of microwave popcorn from another hotel at another time, so he happily retrieved it.
The microwave, according to Guy, was located above the refrigerator as many of them are in other hotels. He opened the door and put the bag inside but noticed that there was no “popcorn” button like we have at home on our microwave. “Around three minutes should do it,” he thought, so he pushed the three and two zeros. Then he looked for the start button but couldn’t find it.
“I knew I better get my glasses at this point if I wanted to see how to operate this thing,” he said, building up to the climax of the story. I was clueless where this was headed.
“I put on my glasses and went back to what I thought was the microwave but soon realized this wasn’t a microwave at all.”
Guy had tried to pop his popcorn in the room safe.
"The Land of My Ancestry"
Guy is a good driver. He has driven thousands and thousands of miles because his job requires travel. If a person can drive through Atlanta, he can drive anywhere. However, there is a vast difference between Atlanta and Dublin where we landed for our “driving tour” through Ireland, a trip he had wanted to take for years and the home of my father, Henry Sullivan.
My first concern was that Guy would be driving on the “wrong” side of the road. “No problem,” he said. Next, the stirring wheel was on the “wrong” side of the car. “I can adapt,” he assured me. I trusted that he could, but I was still nervous.
We (our grandson Luke was with us) arrived in Dublin at five in the morning and by 6:00 we were in our rental car headed toward our hotel, located in the busiest section of the city. As we departed, the clouds opened with a slight drizzle. “Where are the wipers? I can’t find the wipers!” he said in a panic. He was trying to navigate with no vision while I was listening to the GPS speak “Irish” when the drizzle turns into a downpour. Suddenly, we came to a very long tunnel that allowed him to see the highway and by some miracle find the wipers.
Not knowing if we were even going in the right direction, he continued straight ahead, which led to a toll booth. He drove through an open lane only to discover no one was attending that booth, and because we had no Euros to toss in the basket, he had no choice but to back up and go to another one. As he was backing this small version of an SUV, I heard an unmistakable sound of metal scraping metal. He had just sideswiped the passenger side of the car against a barricade. We continued toward the city without looking at the damage. By then, I had gripped my door handle so tightly my knuckles were throbbing.
There are no street signs in Dublin. I should say there are none as we see them in the states; signs were posted on sides of buildings and in the rain, impossible to see. Therefore, we couldn’t find our hotel; so Guy asked five people (a garbage collector we stumbled upon down an alley, a taxi driver, a pedestrian, a garage attendant, and a delivery man.) He would get out, listen to the directions, and then come back to the car and say, “I couldn’t understand a word he said.”
As we circled the same statue at least five times, a cab driver pulled up beside us and pointed to our bumper. I rolled down the window. “You’re going to lose it.” Guy had already “Lost it!” but not the bumper. He found a place to pull over, popped the bumper back into place and observed just a small scratch that he hoped would go unnoticed.
Finally, traveling down a cobblestone street at seven in the morning, we stumbled upon our hotel. Naturally, we couldn’t check in that early, so we unloaded, had breakfast, and by nine we were on a Hop-on and Hop-off tour of the city. We didn’t hop on or off! When that tour ended, we checked into the hotel-dead tired. “Let’s rest a little while and then we have reservations for Irish storytelling and dinner,” I said setting my phone alarm.
We woke up at midnight, rolled over, and didn’t wake up until the next morning. Guy said, “I didn’t want to do that anyway!” I don’t remember turning off the phone.
By then, our thirteen-year-old grandson, Luke, knew he was on an adventure with his grandparents he would never forget.
(Continued)
My new book, A Girl Named Connie, is available on Amazon, the Lighthouse Restaurant, and the Edmonton/Metcalfe Chamber of Commerce office.
My first concern was that Guy would be driving on the “wrong” side of the road. “No problem,” he said. Next, the stirring wheel was on the “wrong” side of the car. “I can adapt,” he assured me. I trusted that he could, but I was still nervous.
We (our grandson Luke was with us) arrived in Dublin at five in the morning and by 6:00 we were in our rental car headed toward our hotel, located in the busiest section of the city. As we departed, the clouds opened with a slight drizzle. “Where are the wipers? I can’t find the wipers!” he said in a panic. He was trying to navigate with no vision while I was listening to the GPS speak “Irish” when the drizzle turns into a downpour. Suddenly, we came to a very long tunnel that allowed him to see the highway and by some miracle find the wipers.
Not knowing if we were even going in the right direction, he continued straight ahead, which led to a toll booth. He drove through an open lane only to discover no one was attending that booth, and because we had no Euros to toss in the basket, he had no choice but to back up and go to another one. As he was backing this small version of an SUV, I heard an unmistakable sound of metal scraping metal. He had just sideswiped the passenger side of the car against a barricade. We continued toward the city without looking at the damage. By then, I had gripped my door handle so tightly my knuckles were throbbing.
There are no street signs in Dublin. I should say there are none as we see them in the states; signs were posted on sides of buildings and in the rain, impossible to see. Therefore, we couldn’t find our hotel; so Guy asked five people (a garbage collector we stumbled upon down an alley, a taxi driver, a pedestrian, a garage attendant, and a delivery man.) He would get out, listen to the directions, and then come back to the car and say, “I couldn’t understand a word he said.”
As we circled the same statue at least five times, a cab driver pulled up beside us and pointed to our bumper. I rolled down the window. “You’re going to lose it.” Guy had already “Lost it!” but not the bumper. He found a place to pull over, popped the bumper back into place and observed just a small scratch that he hoped would go unnoticed.
Finally, traveling down a cobblestone street at seven in the morning, we stumbled upon our hotel. Naturally, we couldn’t check in that early, so we unloaded, had breakfast, and by nine we were on a Hop-on and Hop-off tour of the city. We didn’t hop on or off! When that tour ended, we checked into the hotel-dead tired. “Let’s rest a little while and then we have reservations for Irish storytelling and dinner,” I said setting my phone alarm.
We woke up at midnight, rolled over, and didn’t wake up until the next morning. Guy said, “I didn’t want to do that anyway!” I don’t remember turning off the phone.
By then, our thirteen-year-old grandson, Luke, knew he was on an adventure with his grandparents he would never forget.
(Continued)
My new book, A Girl Named Connie, is available on Amazon, the Lighthouse Restaurant, and the Edmonton/Metcalfe Chamber of Commerce office.
Watermelon and summer. It is hard to think of one without the other. When I was very young, watermelons took the place of cakes and pies, both of which we seldom had. We had watermelon in the summer and hot chocolate and toast in the winter. Those were desserts and good ones, too.
I never think of watermelons that I don’t think of Beech Bend Park. Once or twice during the summer, the family (extended as well as immediate) spread out a picnic lunch under a big oak tree near the river. At the end of the meal, men flipped open their pocket knives and sliced pieces of watermelon that were usually placed on newspapers for a quick clean up. The little ones would sink their faces into the watermelon, but the men would cut off hunks with their knives. Women usually used forks and tried not to get the juice all over their peddle-pushers (pants).
The bigger boys had seed spitting contests. They would throw their heads to the side and try to sling each seed farther than the last person. Seeds were nuisances to us girls, so we flicked them aside with our fingers as if they were ants. Sometimes the boys would throw the rinds at each other, starting a war among the trees. Mothers soon put a stop to that while fathers laughed at their antics. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” I can hear my grandmother saying as they chased each other.
These watermelons, most likely, were not “store bought” or seedless. Most in the group raised gardens and always planted watermelons at the end of the patch, so the vines would not overcome the rest of the vegetables. At picnic time, they would go through the garden and thump on several before they found the ripest ones. I still thump watermelons in the grocery store.
Watermelons are still a part of family gatherings. They are the “fly catchers” of the picnic. If you have sliced watermelon on your wagon, the flies swarm toward that end of the wagon. Eating a big juicy piece with one hand and swatting flies with the other is an art. Speaking of juicy, watermelons are 91% water.
Summer means many things, but it is not really summertime until we see trucks overloaded with watermelons going through town or setting up on the square. Until we can go to the Farmer’s Market and find “homegrown ones.” It isn’t summer until we slice one open over the sink and cut out the heart (that’s my favorite part) or slice it into small bites and eat it over the sink, which is what Guy does. Then we spend the rest of the night running to the bathroom! Watermelon, watermelon, watermelon rind….what was that rhyme?
I never think of watermelons that I don’t think of Beech Bend Park. Once or twice during the summer, the family (extended as well as immediate) spread out a picnic lunch under a big oak tree near the river. At the end of the meal, men flipped open their pocket knives and sliced pieces of watermelon that were usually placed on newspapers for a quick clean up. The little ones would sink their faces into the watermelon, but the men would cut off hunks with their knives. Women usually used forks and tried not to get the juice all over their peddle-pushers (pants).
The bigger boys had seed spitting contests. They would throw their heads to the side and try to sling each seed farther than the last person. Seeds were nuisances to us girls, so we flicked them aside with our fingers as if they were ants. Sometimes the boys would throw the rinds at each other, starting a war among the trees. Mothers soon put a stop to that while fathers laughed at their antics. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” I can hear my grandmother saying as they chased each other.
These watermelons, most likely, were not “store bought” or seedless. Most in the group raised gardens and always planted watermelons at the end of the patch, so the vines would not overcome the rest of the vegetables. At picnic time, they would go through the garden and thump on several before they found the ripest ones. I still thump watermelons in the grocery store.
Watermelons are still a part of family gatherings. They are the “fly catchers” of the picnic. If you have sliced watermelon on your wagon, the flies swarm toward that end of the wagon. Eating a big juicy piece with one hand and swatting flies with the other is an art. Speaking of juicy, watermelons are 91% water.
Summer means many things, but it is not really summertime until we see trucks overloaded with watermelons going through town or setting up on the square. Until we can go to the Farmer’s Market and find “homegrown ones.” It isn’t summer until we slice one open over the sink and cut out the heart (that’s my favorite part) or slice it into small bites and eat it over the sink, which is what Guy does. Then we spend the rest of the night running to the bathroom! Watermelon, watermelon, watermelon rind….what was that rhyme?