Watermelon Makes Me Sad

One of my not so secret secrets is that I don't eat fruit. It isn't even so much that I dislike it, I just don't eat it. I never crave it. If I go to the kitchen to get something to eat, I will never come back with an apple or an orange. I - just - don't - eat - it. If I eat a desert, I do NOT want the blueberry crumble. I don't know what a blueberry crumble is, but I am sure that I would pick out the crumble to eat.

A couple of weekends ago my dear friend Molly came to visit and I know she loves fruit. She always brings a new fruit smoothy or crescent roll stuffed desert that she is sure will be the one thing to convert me to the fruity side. It never works.

In my trip to the store to prepare for her visit (wine and champagne anyone?) I saw a little personal seedless watermelon. It was so cute, just this little miniature version of one of the few fruits I like ... and I mean really, really like. No debating here whether it is a fruit or a vegetable. I need to eat fruit, so it is a fruit.

The first morning that Molly was here, I cooked a full breakfast ... scrambled eggs with cheese, crispy bacon and hot biscuits. Then Molly and I halved the little watermelon and dug in. It was wonderful. Perfectly ripe, sweet, juicy and not a seed in sight.

Molly and I talked and laughed and solved the world's woes over that watermelon. It was great!

This week I bought another watermelon. I went through the bunch and thumped the way Mom taught me. I picked the one that wasn't too big but had that great hollow sound that Mom said meant it was ripe. I lugged it up the stairs and put it in the fridge ready for the perfect time.

Today I brought out the watermelon. I sliced it into the exact right sized piece and settled myself at the kitchen table to eat it. It was perfect - ripe but not too ripe. But something wasn't right. It took me a minute to realize ... eating watermelon is a group activity.

If you are anywhere near my age, you know what I mean. Eating watermelon was an event. Whether from the garden, the guy with tomatoes on the side of the street or Wilson's Grocery Store, it was a big deal when your mom put a watermelon in the fridge. And it was never small. It couldn't be small. It had to feed a bunch, because everyone always gathered for watermelon.

At our house it was always after dinner. Dad would take it outside to carve it. Halved, quartered, eighthed. (right now that's a word)  The men would eat the quarters. Kids and women got the eighths. Everyone had their utensil. I'm a spoon girl and I still don't understand eating it with a fork. Daddy always ate it with the carving knife ... he was the only one who could do that because he was big and brave and it was dangerous. We would eat it outside, I now realize, because I was going to make a huge mess, get it all over me, and need to be hosed down before I could go back inside. It was wonderful. My grandparents lived next door, so they were always there too. I would listen to the grown ups talk about ... nothing. Everyone talked and laughed and enjoyed one another's company. It was the best.

So, my watermelon tasted fine today, but it made me sad. I think I'll wrap up the rest and go find someone to share it with.

Daddy's Little Girl

That's the one thing I would wish for every daughter - that wonderful feeling of knowing that you were, are, always will be Daddy's little girl.

When I was growing up, we rarely took what most folks would consider a vacation. As a matter of fact, I remember taking two. One to Panama City and one to the Smokey Mountains. (We had to try twice to make it to the Smokies. The first time we stopped in Nashville to see family on the way and I fell and broke my arm. But that's another story.) Every year Dad would take a week off to drive my mom and her parents and sister to their hometown to visit family, but that wasn't really a vacation - and again that's another story.

But you don't really miss what you never had, so I never realized that people took a vacation every year and went to ... where ever. What I did have was my father's attention. He worked for Coca-Cola until retirement, and drove a truck for them most of that time. He spent long, hot days slinging cases of bottled Coke - loading up grocery stores, convenience stores, or small shops all over the Shoals area. I know today that when he got home he had to have been exhausted and sore. I'm sure that what he wanted more than anything was a little peace and quiet, a nice dinner, and to put his feet up and relax. What he got was a little girl who had been waiting impatiently for him to come home to play. So he played.

What I remember as vacation would sound silly to folks today. But every once in awhile, Mom would pack a lunch and Daddy would drive us to Dismal Gardens. Now I know it took us maybe an hour to get there, but it seemed like forever at the time.

Mom would unpack the lunches and hang around the picnic area and my dad and I would take off to walk the trails. It was no major hike. They were simple little nature trails. But I thought is was magical. It always seemed cooler in those woods - cooler and quieter and mysterious. I know there were other families there, but somehow it always seemed like it was just me and my dad.

As we would walk the main trail, we would find little side trails. I was always sure that grand adventures lay at the end of those trails and I would race down each one. Every time the trail would just end and I would be disappointed, standing in the middle of nowhere.  I would turn around to head back and there would be my dad, standing back to let me find out for myself, but never taking his eyes off of me. Just waiting for me to realize that it was a dead end. He never tried to stop me. He let me learn for myself. But he was always there. Making sure I was safe and waiting for me to come back.

I've taken a lot of different paths in my life. Some have been beautiful and fulfilling. Others have been true dead ends. Regardless of the outcome,  my father was always there - never telling me not to go, never chiding me for mistakes, always cheering for my successes, always letting me find my path - always making sure I was safe.

He's been gone a few years now. His mind had been taken from him, his wife had been taken from him, and he was ready to go. I wouldn't have wished for him to stay, but I still miss him. Somehow it makes it easier to know that one day I'll turn around and find him there, smiling and watching - waiting for me to take the right path.

Happy Father's Day Daddy! Love you, miss you, see you soon.