Watermelon Day
By Kathi Appelt
That watermelon grew in the corner of the patch where the fence posts met. Jesse found it early one day while pulling weeds. It was not as big as her fist, but it was bigger than the other melons still hiding beneath their mamas’ fuzzy leaves.
When she showed it to Pappy, he smiled. “Yep, it’ll be a big one all right. It’ll be just right for a Watermelon Day.”
“A Watermelon Day!”
Jesse knew what that meant. There would be cousins, big and small. Mama’s peach ice cream. Inning and inning of softball. Relay races and apple-bobbing. Uncle Ike with his banjo. Finally, to top it all, ice-cold watermelon---the biggest one from the patch.
Thinking about it made Jesse’s mouth water.
“How long till it’s ready, Pappy?” she asked.
“Got a whole summer to go yet,” he answered.
Jesse looked at the small melon. It was round and snug in the sand. She smiled.
Every day Jesse walked up and down the rows of the patch. When she got to her melon, she knelt beside it and put her ear against its dark green rind.
She patted it wither palm. At first it made a thick, dull sound, like Pappy’s boot when he dropped them on the front porch. But as the days passed, the sound grew brighter.
Jesse patted the other melons, too. Some sounded dull. Some sounded bright. But hers had the sweetest song.
Watermelon, watermelon.
“How much longer, Pappy?” she asked.
“Not much longer now,” he answered.
The summer days grew longer. Jesse’s watermelon got riper. Its stripes began to zig and zag.
Jesse waited. She waited until the days were so hot she had to wear shoes so her feet wouldn’t blister in the sand. So hot the air wrinkled up like an unironed shirt. So hot that hardly anything moved except the flies.
She waited until she thought she and her watermelon might both burst from the sheer waiting of it all.
One morning, when the relatives were coming, Jesse asked, “How much longer, Pappy?” Pappy looked at Jesse. He looked at the watermelon patch, He looked at the blue summer sky. “Well,” he answered, “this looks like a Watermelon Day.”
“A Watermelon Day!”
Jesse skipped to the corner of the patch where the fence posts met. She patted her watermelon. It was full of the cool summer rains. Full of the warmth from its sandy nest. Full of the deep hot sun.
Pappy cut the ropelike vine with his pocketknife and carried the melon out of the patch, past the front porch and down to the lake. He set it in the cold, cold water. There it floated, right along the edge, beneath the deep blue shade of the weeping willow tree.
“How long will it take, Pappy?” asked Jesse.
“Most of the day,” he answered. “There’s a whole summer’s worth of heat inside it.”
Jesse’s watermelon floated all that hot day long. Willow branches dipped up and down, testing the icy water. That melon floated while the cousins came.
It floated while Mama dished out peach ice cream.
It floated through a game of softball and several relay races.
It even floated while Uncle Ike played “Turkey in the Straw.”
And all the while Jesse thought about it, her mouth watered.
Watermelon, watermelon.
“How much longer, Pappy?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s not ready yet,” he answered.
The day stretched and stretched like a lazy ol’ cat. Jesse waited and waited.
She waited through more innings of softball. She waited through apple-bobbing. She waited through freeze-tag. She waited through Uncle Ike’s rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
At last the sun began to sink. The sweat dried on Jesse’s neck. The lake shimmered. “How much longer, Pappy?” she asked. Pappy looked at Jesse. He looked at the sinking sun. He looked at the shimmery lake. “I think it’s good and cold now,” he answered.
Jesse hopped. She skipped. She danced all the way to the lake. Pappy lifted melon out of the icy water and carried it to the front porch, where he set it down.
With the side of his fist, Pappy hit that melon right in the deep, deep middle.
Red, red juice ran down Jesse’s chin. It ran down her hand and between her fingers. It splashed onto her toes.
That melon was sweet. Sweet as the summer rain. Sweet as a nighttime song. That melon was cold. Cold as a puppy’s nose. Cold as the deep blue lake.
Jesse smiled. She danced. She spit watermelon seeds into the sky. She sang a watermelon song.
Watermelon, Watermelon