I sometimes think
of the year on the Doc Hunt place as the “year of the watermelons.” The red sandy soil of those Ozark hills was
getting quite worn out at the time, but until the big drought hit in the early
thirties, some things grew quite well and one of them was watermelons. That year Dad decided that maybe he could
make a little money from watermelons so he planted about half an acre of
them. Well, watermelons did real well
that year. By the middle of the summer we—and
everyone else in the area—had watermelons coming out of our ears. It was a real whing-dinger of a bumper crop. Unfortunately, there was not much of a market
for melons that year.
I recall that we
put a pile of watermelons out by the side of the road in the front yard with a
sign that said, “10 CENTS EACH.” There
was not much traffic on that old dirt road except mostly local people and I do
not recall that we sold a single melon.
The only ones
besides us that made any use of that pile of melons before we fed them to the
hogs was that one morning we got up and there were two fellows sitting out
there by a car eating watermelon. It
turned out that it was two of our Hayward cousins from Kansas City—Wilbur and
Denton, I think—that had come for a visit.
Finding no one up yet they sat down out there and had a breakfast of melons. It was a four or five-hour trip from Kansas
City in those days so I guess they drove down in the middle of the night to be
there at that hour.
Watermelons had a
special significance. Even though we had
so many watermelons at home that we only ate the hearts and threw the rest to
the hogs, none tasted as good as a stolen watermelon. We would walk right by our own melon patch
then, on the way to the creek or somewhere, we would sneak into a neighbor’s
patch and steal a couple. Some of those
old fellows would keep a shotgun loaded with rock salt for watermelon thieves
so it was an exciting game to us.
I am afraid that
all young boys waste a lot of watermelons—at least we often did. Even though we knew full well how to thump a watermelon
and tell if it was ripe, we had a much more sure method. We would turn the melon over and cut a plug
out of it with a pocket knife. If it was
not to our taste, we just put the plug back in and turned the melon back over
so the plug would not show. Of course,
plugged melons just laid there and rotted.
We were always
quite envious of a couple of boys that lived just down the road from us. They had a knack of eating a whole slice of
watermelon without spitting out a single seed.
Somehow they could store the seeds in their cheeks like a squirrel or
chipmunk will do, then spit out the whole batch when they were finished in a
stream like a machine gun. I kept trying
but never did master that feat. I just
wound up swallowing a lot of melon seeds.
There were other
ways that country boys got into devilment.
Just down the road from our house, an old crippled man ran a very shabby
little country store. His name was Edgar
Dixon and he was crippled in such a way that he went around in a perpetual squat. We said that he did not leave any tracks
because, when he went to the store, his behind wiped out his footprints.
It was not much of
a store, but the local folks bought a few things there. One time old Edgar got in some salted
peanuts. He put them up in penny candy
paper bags and kept a pile of those little sacks on the counter for a nickel
apiece. Even if I could remember I would
not say who did it, but one day there were some boys in the store who had taken
in some rabbits to sell to the old man. While
they had him busy with the rabbits, one of the boys slipped a sack of those
salted peanuts into his pocket without Edgar seeing.
The boys ate the
peanuts as they walked across the fields, then they got an idea. They gathered up some dried sheep droppings (which
come out in small black balls) and filled the peanut sack with them, twisting
the top back just like the old man had done. Then they went back to the store to get some
22 shells. (Right away you know that it
was not Richard and me because we were not yet old enough to carry a 22 rifle
around).
The story goes that
later a neighbor lady was in the store and bought a sack of peanuts. When she opened the sack, she looked in it
and exclaimed, “Edgar! Wh-what in the
world is wrong with these peanuts?!”
The old man looked
into the sack, his mouth fell open and he blurted out, “Gawd—sheep shit!” He had to open every sack then to make sure
there was no more like that.
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