Watermelon

Today I went to the Del Mar farmer’s market and bought a watermelon from Ray’s Subtropical stand.  Ray didn’t know if it would be red or yellow, but he said it would be sweet and it was ripe and ready to eat now.  That was enough for me.  I took it home, and cut it open.  It was yellow.  I prefer red—the color of watermelon in my youth--but it doesn’t matter.  What matters is the texture—crisp and crunchy—and the flavor—sweet with depth, complexity, and fragrance.  It did pretty well on these counts, just not quite as deep and rich as a red can be, and a little more mellow. 

Every time I eat a watermelon, I think of Janie Jones and one spectacularly hot, humid summer Saturday in the country in Mississippi.  Janie Jones was the grandmother of my church when I was growing up.  When we first moved to Zachary, Louisiana, when I was 3, she was already the one who ran things at the church, where my dad was going to now be pastor.  She did the flowers in front of the pulpit every Sunday, and the music minister, Wayne Vincent, lived at her house, where we would go over for dinner at least every week, often on Sundays after service.  She seemed to be the one who did everything at the church, and she knew everyone, and she was old!  She wore old lady dresses and hats to church and had arms with the big wattles and lots of wrinkles in her face, and her eyes shone and twinkled and she smiled all the time, and I loved her.  She was kind and cheery.  I thought Santa Claus would be like her if he were a woman and around all the time. 

I associate her with the color brown—brown hair, brown dresses, brown hats—and brown pecans, delicious lasagna, National geographic magazines, and archery.  She lived in a big old white frame house facing the railroad tracks.  Her house had a big front porch with a deep grassy front yard and a big backyard filled with pecan trees.  We’d go over for dinner after Sunday morning services, and while we waited for the meal to be served, we’d sit in the dark, curtained parlor, with its big soft brown chairs, and browse through stacks and stacks of National Geographic magazines, piled all around the room—the first time I ever saw the magazine or had any exposure to the larger world was there in her small dark cozy parlor.  Then she’d call us in to sit around the big dining table, and serve us lasagna—my first time ever to eat lasagna or even hear the word was at her house, and it was a delicious revelation of cheesy goodness. 

After we’d stuffed ourselves silly, we could run out to play in the yard—hide-and-seek, or even chase or cowboys and Indians, if we could move—and eventually we were given buckets and told to pick pecans.  This was my favorite chore of all time.  The ground was so rich and dark and deep smelling—dark dirt and old leaves—and we could pick for hours and hours and never run out of pecans to find somewhere if we poked around and explored enough. 

On truly special days, Wayne Vincent would set up the archery set in the front yard, and let us shoot his bow and arrow at the target.  I couldn’t think of anything finer that to have my own bow and arrow and be able to practice anytime I wanted.

Plus, Janie Jones had a grandson about my age who would come to visit every now and then.  His name was Ben Jones. He had sandy hair and a nice face, and he was my first true love.  I remember one Wednesday night in particular after church—we were maybe 8 years old.  We were sitting in the dirt outside the church offices waiting for our respective adults and rolling the roly poly bugs around in the dirt, shooting them like marbles, when some bossy older girl came by and told us we shouldn’t hurt the bugs.  I felt so ashamed that we stopped and instead drew in the dirt and watched fireflies and talked about our plans for the future, and pledged our eternal love to each other and decided we would get married.  I was so excited.  I couldn’t wait to tell my mom when I got home, but she just laughed and laughed and said we couldn’t get married now, and I cried and cried and couldn’t understand why.  It seemed so perfect.  But she said we were too young and Ben didn’t live here and was going home soon.

Then one day Wayne Vincent announced he was leaving the church to go to another church in Baton Rouge, and not long after that Janie Jones retired her post as director of everything at the church, sold her house and moved to Mississippi to be with her family.

I was shocked.  I didn’t see how First Baptist Zachary could go on without her, and I couldn’t imagine my own life without her.  My father assured me we would go visit her and see her again.

And we did--once.  One hot, sunny summer day, he piled us all into the car and said we were going to go see Janie Jones.  I was beside myself with joy and excitement.  I hoped Ben would be there too.  We drove for hours and hours and wound up at a farmhouse way out in the country, where he said Mrs. Jones lived with her family.  She came out to greet us and gave me a warm, squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hug, and I wanted to bask in her presence all day, but there were lots of people I didn’t know there, and they all wanted to see my dad and her too.  Ben wasn’t there.    I asked, but they said he couldn’t come, that he lived far away, or something--I was too disappointed to follow what they said. 

We ate a light lunch of finger sandwiches—no lasagna—and the old folks talked awhile and it seemed like the energy just kind of died down.  Then someone said we should go pick some watermelon.  They piled us all in the back of a pick-up truck and away we went out in the fields, bumping along on roads, no roads, out in pasture, and stopped somewhere in the bright sun.  The men picked lots and lots of watermelons, cutting them off the vine, and piling them in the back of the truck, and we drove back to the house.  I’d never seen so many watermelons, and I couldn’t imagine how they expected us to eat them all.

My dad said it was getting late, and we better be going, but I begged and pleaded for some watermelon first.  He seemed to not want to take it, and I couldn’t understand why.  I didn’t learn until much later that they grew those watermelon to sell, and he was concerned about taking away part of their livelihood.  He eventually conceded to a little watermelon, and we ate it—red, hot, sweet, and delicious--and then said our goodbyes. 

I never saw Janie Jones, or Ben Jones again, but I remember her every time I eat watermelon (or, for that matter, have any experience that includes a warm and loving smile, pecans, lasagna, National Geographics, archery sets, roly poly bugs, old lady arms, or the color brown).  Even if the watermelon is yellow.  I am happy to support my local farmer.