A Yankee in Watermelon Heaven

 This post is dedicated to my sister Cindy, who loved watermelon as much as I did. July 12, is her birthday. Happy Birthday, Cindy Lou. I miss you.

I’m convinced--when God created watermelon, he had me in mind. 

My love affair with this heavenly fruit goes way back to my life in utero. My mother, six months pregnant and living in Rhode Island, started craving watermelon during the snowy days of December, 1963. Eager to appease his bride, my sweet daddy arranged to have one shipped all the way from Florida. It took a month to arrive and cost $5. That was almost two tanks of gas back in 1964. 

“Did you eat it all?” I asked my mom the first time I heard the story. 

“Every bit of it,” she replied. 

I didn’t ask if she shared. I already knew the answer. 

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Every summer on the Fourth of July we’d have a picnic under the shade of the grapevine. The hamburgers and hot dogs were great (barbeque is a verb in New England), but the crowning glory was always the first watermelon of the season—a big green striper. 

Every year my godfather, who never owned a car in his life, would accomplish the impressive feat of transporting one safely home from the fruit stand in his bicycle basket. 

One year he hit a pothole. The watermelon shifted, and Padrinho crashed. 

So did the watermelon. 

That year it held a position of honor in the center of the table where we kids gazed at it longingly as we scarfed down Oscar Mayer’s finest. 

One watermelon didn’t go far among the 20 or so guests at the picnic, and kids were at the bottom of the food chain. I savored my wedge-shaped slice of heaven as long as possible, nibbling it down to the rind and sucking the juice. 



I remember the first summer we lived in South Carolina. We’d been here a week, and my 15-year-old self was feeling highly skeptical and severely displaced. So far, I’d seen nothing to justify moving 1,000 miles down the East Coast the summer before my sophomore year in high school. But in true Southern vernacular, that was fixin to change. 

Anxious to reacquaint himself with the city he’d left 20 years ago when the navy shipped him North to Newport, my dad dragged us to the grand reopening of the State Farmer’s Market. I was unimpressed. 

It was July, and walking down row after row of pickup trucks laden with foreign vegetables with scary names like squash and okra didn’t do a thing for me. Until I spotted the long line of people queuing up at one end of the produce shed. 

“They’re giving away free watermelon,” I heard someone say. 

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Pulling my sisters along, I craned my neck until I could see a farmer in overalls. He was wielding a sharp knife and sacrificing watermelon after watermelon to the summer crowd. The air smelled like freshly cut grass and sunshine. 

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As I approached the back of the truck to receive my wedge of wonder, a trickle of pink rain spilled off the tailgate and splashed onto my toes. Expecting the token tiny triangle, I was speechless when the sweating man handed me a quarter of a watermelon and waved me on. Staggering under the weight of my wealth, I croaked out a thank you and stepped aside. 

My adolescent transition to the South wasn’t settled that day, but it took a giant step forward. Any city that had watermelon to give away couldn’t be all bad. 

Today, many years later, I stand with the biggest knife in the block poised over a basketball-sized melon. I crack its dark green shell and pink rain again splashes onto my toes. The smell of freshly cut grass and sunshine takes my breath away. 

I don’t know why God created delicious food like watermelon, but I sure am glad he did. I suspect it’s because he’s the type of Father who loves to give good gifts to his children (James 1:17). I like to think that every time he sees me take a blissful bite of melon, he smiles too. ‘Cause that’s what daddies do when their kids are happy. 

For what good gift are you thankful for today? Leave a comment below and join the conversation. If you’re reading by email, CLICK HERE to comment.

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