We got to choose whether we wanted to help gather the eggs or pick melons. I always chose picking the melons because I was scared the chickens would jump on me and peck me to death. Getting through the pasture to the melon patch was always less formidable to me than the possibility of confronting the chickens in the henhouse. On an earlier summer farm visit, one of my cousins decided I needed some egg education.
“Hold out your hand,” she said to me. “Just hold it out, palm up.”
As I held out my hand, I had a sinking feeling that I would regret that moment.
Before I realized it, she had placed a soft-shell egg in my palm, and I could feel the small body moving around inside. I suddenly felt nauseous, because of the mental picture I had created of chickens jumping around, so I dropped that egg and took off running. I ran all the way to the smokehouse as I heard my cousins’ taunting laughter and chanting behind me. “Fraidy cat, fraidy cat.” I was a coward, and I did not care one bit. I’ll take watermelon picking over egg-gathering any day.
Getting to the watermelons was always a challenge. Two boondoggles stood between us and them: Cow manure and bees.
“Watch out or you’ll cut your foot,” Granddaddy would holler as we set out for the melon vines. Getting a “cut foot” was Granddaddy’s reference for stepping in cow manure. “And don’t be pointing (pronounced pintin’) at those melons cause you’ll make ’em fall off the vines too early.” We could hear Granddaddy’s snorting guffaw as we hightailed it over toward the watermelon patch. Sandy, Granddaddy’s collie dog, romped along with us, barking excitedly all the way.
“Look out over there, and over here, too,” I shouted, as I tried to offer guidance to us all.
“Oh, no, I think I already stepped in it. Ugh,” one of us replied.
“Watch out. I think I did it, too.”
We knew that the consequences of “cut feet” included an hour or more of shoe cleaning and scolding if we tried to bring the shoes into the house before the odor was mostly gone. Once we got out to the vines, we momentarily forgot about the shoes as we tried to dodge the bees that were swarming nearby. The ultimate low point would be to let a bee sting get the best of you. Only a sissy would let a bee sting make you go back to the house for treatment of the pain and swelling (probably a little baking soda or tobacco juice rubbed on the sting) instead of eating and fetching the watermelons.
We decided that pintin’ at the melons only counted when you did it with your index finger—not with your elbow—so we wiggled our elbows at every single melon we saw. “Looka here at me,” we hooted to one another, as we elbow-pointed at all of those watermelons. Granddaddy taught us that the ripe melons were the ones that had come off the vines prior to the pintin’ and had a yellowish spot on their bottoms where they showed evidence of being “ground-ripened.”
We would take our first-picked ripe melons over to the fence posts and crack ’em in two, eating out the heart, which was the sweetest portion, and spitting the seeds out as we pleased. This behavior was acceptable because we were with family and not “mixed company.”
Finally, we gathered up a ripe melon apiece and navigated our way back through the pasture to the truck, where we loaded our bounty onto the bed. Since it took several trips to the melon patch and back to accomplish this task, most all of us had “cut feet” by the time we finished it. Granny had us to leave one or two melons beside the door of the house to have with her special roasting ear (corn) soup for breakfast the next morning. We knew we would be out picking corn for the soup and other vegetables from Granny’s garden later in the day when we got back from town.
When the truck was half-full with melons in the back and several baskets filled with fresh eggs in the cab, we loaded ourselves and Sandy into the remaining space in the back of the pickup and away we went into town. Holding on tightly to the sides of the truck as the wind whipped our hair awry, we screamed over Sandy’s barking most of the way into town. As Granddaddy stopped at each “selling point,” we took turns jumping down from the truck to haul the melons out for the buying public. Granddaddy called himself a “she-Grandpa” until years later when our two boy cousins were born into the family, and he introduced us girls to folks as “his boys.”
When we stopped at the home of Mrs. Kate, the Sunday school teacher, she bought some eggs and asked Granddaddy if she would be seeing us at Sunday school. Granddaddy assured her that we would be there. “I will expect to see every one of you at Sunday church meeting, now,” Mrs. Kate replied with her admonishing tone.
“Yes ma’am,” we responded, much to Granddaddy’s relief.
“And can you bring along your smallest ripe melon to Sunday school?” Mrs. Kate added. “I believe we can use it in our Bible lesson.”
“Yes’m. See you Sunday,” we called as Granddaddy drove off to the next stop.
I wondered how on earth a watermelon could be part of a Bible lesson, but I knew from other Sunday school visits at Granny and Granddaddy’s church that Mrs. Kate was an inspirational teacher. Whatever she had planned would be worth knowing. She had us hooked from that instant, by appealing to our curiosity. Sunday was two days away, so we would have to wait to find out the mystery.
When we arrived back at the farm, Granny had a snack lunch ready for us: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with some cookies and milk. She knew we wouldn’t eat much because we were hankering to get outside and move on with our explorations around the farm. Granddaddy had some work to do at the farmhouse before getting back outdoors, so Granny gave us our directions:
“Children, now go out and pick two baskets of vegetables from the garden during the afternoon for the evening dinner and bring them back in time for cooking. Best not go over to the little pond alone, and best not get into the old barn. Now, scoot.”
We told Granny we would pick some vegetables, and away we went. The plan always worked. We made sure we got most of two baskets full of ripe vegetables from the garden: Corn, squash, okra, tomatoes, cucumbers, and whatever else appeared ready for picking.
Next, we stashed the mostly full baskets in a cool hiding place (usually the porch swing), where we could grab them later on to prove we had, in fact, been picking. Then we headed off to the little pond, about a half-mile through the pasture behind the barn. If we stayed close to the beaten path we didn’t have to worry as much about getting “cut feet” with this adventure. Sandy went along with us, but we petted him all the way so his barking would not betray us with our whereabouts.
We were careful to take off our shoes and roll up our britches legs before the wading so we could dry off pretty well afterward and evidence would not remain to reveal our disobedience. As we waded into the cool water of the little pond, we pondered Mrs. Kate’s words.
“How can a watermelon be part of a Bible lesson?” I asked out loud.
“Well, I read my Bible regular, and I sure don’t remember that part.”
“Mrs. Kate can find a way to do it if anybody can.”
“Sunday school will at least be interesting, so I don’t fall asleep there.”
After wading long enough to feel that we had showed our childlike selves in disobedience, we sat down on the bank to dry off a spell while Sandy shook his watery body all over us, making us scream in spite of ourselves. When we had dried out enough to put our shoes back on and roll down our britches, we proceeded to the next forbidden escapade: Going into the old barn.
We had to be quiet and stealthy about getting into the old barn because it was closer to the main farmhouse, and we didn’t want to get called in for “wash up” before we completed our explorations. New kittens were in there, and we could hear them mewing, and we tried to get a distant look at them without disturbing their mother cat. My older cousin decided to be bold and climb up the ladder to the top floor. As she ventured out onto the creaky boards in the center of the room, I decided to follow her up the l
adder and wisely stayed on the top rungs, peeking in so I could see her.
“Come on out here in the middle of the rafters,” she beckoned.
“No, it’s not safe,” I said, as I shook my head and motioned for the two younger cousins to stay down below.
“You’re just scared again, like with that egg thing.”
“You better come on back,” I yelled, but it was too late.
The rotten board she stood on began to crack in two pieces, and she barely made it back to the ladder before she slipped all the way through, too. We all screamed, and when we made it out of the barn, we ran back to the house as fast as we could, hollering all the way. Granddaddy came out and asked us what was going on, and we settled down and said that we were just playing chase. Our disobedience had nearly backfired on us.
We reclaimed our baskets of vegetables from the front porch swing and took them in to Granny, washing them for her, and realizing that we were getting mighty hungry for evening dinner. While Granny cooked dinner, we washed up and settled down in the front porch swing to rest from our afternoon adventures. We took turns swinging as high as we could go, and then seeing if any of us would be brave enough to try jumping out when the swing was at its highest point in the air. Pretty soon, we could smell dinner cooking, and we could hear Granny whistling as she worked in the kitchen.
Granny would cook every cousin’s favorite dish, and mine was fried okra.
No one could make fried okra the same as Granny. Hers was light and sweet, due to the freshness of the just-picked okra and the slight amount of cornmeal she used to coat the okra before frying it in bacon drippings. I pulled up a stool and sat watching Granny’s expert moves as she heated the cut up okra on high heat, lightly browning the okra pieces and turning them over and over in the cast iron skillet. Then she lowered the heat, simmering the okra until it was completely tender and ready for eating. I didn’t much like sharing it with anyone else, and I did so grudgingly. I made sure I got the last serving, too.
I called the okra “my Annie Okra,” after Annie Oakley, the legendary sure-shooter. I even had a cowgirl suit with a red vest, skirt, and hat, and two cap guns so I could pretend to “be” Annie Oakley when I wore that outfit. Although I brought the outfit with me to the farm, I figured that Granny probably wouldn’t let me wear it to Sunday church meeting. I decided to ask Granny if she knew how a watermelon could be part of a Bible lesson.
“Granny, is there a Bible lesson with a watermelon as part of it?” I inquired, as we helped Granny clear the table after evening dinner.
“Child, I don’t remember one, but Mrs. Kate may be planning to use the watermelon to help you children learn a Bible lesson.”
We took our baths after dinner and piled into the big beds, ready for slumber after our busy day at the farm. We fell asleep after saying our prayers and wondering how our parents were getting along at our homes without us. We decided they could make do all right, and we knew they would be coming to visit us Sunday afternoon, anyway, to see how we were doing at the farm.
The next day was Saturday, and we went with Granddaddy to milk the cows early that morning before breakfast. When we returned to the house, Granny had her roasting ear (corn) soup ready for us with hearts of watermelon slices to go with it. After breakfast, Granddaddy gave out the fishing poles, accompanying us on a “sanctioned” visit to the little pond.
We followed him along the path, never breathing a word about how we’d already been over there the day before and waded around in the water for a spell on our own. Each cousin wanted to be the one who caught the most fish, of course. The problem was that I wouldn’t touch the red wiggler worms. So somebody had to bait my hook for me.
“Granddaddy, will you fix my worm on the hook, please?” I begged.
“You can do it for yourself.”
“No, I can’t. They’re wigglin’ all around. I’ll be sick if I do it.”
“Scaredy cat, scaredy cat,” my cousins chanted.
“The rest of us can put our own worms on the hooks. You just won’t catch any fish.”
When I was almost in tears, Granddaddy gave up and had mercy on me. We all caught some fish, but Granddaddy threw them back into the pond after taking them off the hook because they were so small. We were catching the same fishes over and over again, but we still counted up to find out how many we caught all together. Being there at the pond with Granddaddy and having him take up time with us was the main part of the fun.
Later that day, Granddaddy reminded us to go out to the watermelon patch again and find a small, round melon for Mrs. Kate’s Bible lesson the next morning. Granddaddy’s melons varied in shape and size, from large, oblong, and striped to small, round, and solid dark. We picked out a small, round, darkish melon with the telltale ripened yellowish spot on the “grounded” side for Mrs. Kate. That was one of the few trips to the melon patch when I think no one got any “cut feet.”
Sunday morning dawned, and Granny was calling us early on to get dressed in our Sunday clothes to go to church. We wore our napkins around our necks at breakfast so as not to get our church clothes messed up. Granny fixed roasting ear soup again (at our request) and some freshly gathered scrambled eggs with bacon and grits, too.
I had brought my Bible with me from home, along with my embroidered bookmark that Mama made and used to mark her favorite Bible stories when she was growing up. She gave it to me so I could use it as she did. It was delicate and lacy around the edges with irises embroidered in dark blue and yellow down the center part. I intended to use the bookmark to mark the mystery passage that related to a watermelon and then to impress all my friends back at home with this knowledge. I tried to wear part of the Annie Oakley cowgirl suit, too, over my good clothes, but Granny made me take the cowgirl suit off and leave it at the farmhouse.
When everyone was ready, Granddaddy pulled the blue pickup to the house, and Granny got into the cab with him. Granddaddy had put a quilt down over the bed part of the pickup, and we climbed in and sat down on it. Granddaddy handed us the chosen watermelon, and we wedged it in between us so it wouldn’t roll all over the back of the truck and get split apart before we got to church. Sandy barked loudly, wanting to jump in and go with us, but Granddaddy told him he had to stay at home this time. We moved on down the long, gravelly driveway and into town.
The Baptist church building in town was an architectural marvel, and it is still standing today. The story goes that William Tecumseh Sherman himself and his soldiers did not burn this church building during the Civil War when they marched from Atlanta to the sea in Savannah; instead, they occupied the building, keeping their horses in the rounded basement part overnight. That same basement portion of the church building is where Mrs. Kate and the Junior Children’s Department held Sunday school meeting.
As Granny and Granddaddy took us into Mrs. Kate’s Bible class, she asked each one of us our names. To Granny’s horror, I replied that my name was “Annie Oakley.” I decided that God would want Annie Oakley to go to church, too, and why not pretend to be her? Granny made me redeem myself by telling her my real name. Although Granny was embarrassed to death, I am sure that I heard Granddaddy chuckle before Granny stifled him with her stare. We handed Mrs. Kate the small, round melon, and she said that it would be just right for the Bible lesson.
Mrs. Kate introduced all of us girls to the other local children in the class, and I sat down by a pretty, blond girl who smiled at me and told me her name. The boy sitting across from me looked bored and about to fall asleep. Mrs. Kate played the piano and led us in a chorus of “Into my Heart” and “Standing on the Promises.” Then Mrs. Kate told us to get our Bibles ready for a sword drill.
Now, sword drills are very important because they make you test your knowledge of the order and location of the books in the Bible, which is the “Sword of the spirit, the Word of God.” Mrs. Kate would call out a book of
the Bible, along with a chapter and verse number, and we all would try to find the verse first and read it aloud to prove we had found the proper verse.
Sword drill came before the Bible lesson. Right before we started the sword drill, I laid my precious bookmark down on the table where I had been sitting earlier during the singing time. We had to stand up for the sword drill, so I presently forgot about the bookmark as I got caught up in the excitement of the drill. My older cousin won the sword drill (just by one verse, though).
Next came the highly anticipated Bible lesson. Mrs. Kate informed us that the Bible text would be from the Old Testament: I Kings, Chapter 3. Now, this chapter is the story about King Solomon, who asked God for an understanding and wise heart during his kingship, rather than riches or material wealth. She told us to read along silently as she read aloud until we got to verse 24. At that point in the chapter, the boy who sat across from me would help act out the remainder of the chapter (using the watermelon as a prop) as he spoke the words of King Solomon in verses 24, 25, and 27.
I still wondered how a watermelon could possibly relate to the Bible lesson. Apparently, we were about to find out. Mrs. Kate read on about the two women, one whose baby died during the night, and the other whose baby was alive and well, and how both women claimed to be the living child’s real mother. What would King Solomon do to solve the problem? Mrs. Kate got to verse 24, reading, and the boy across from me suddenly stood up (as Mrs. Kate had coached him to do in advance) and spoke King Solomon’s words: “Bring me a sword.”
The boy grasped an imaginary sword and held up our chosen small, round watermelon as a symbol of the living baby. We all sat up very straight in our chairs and began paying close attention. The boy continued speaking as King Solomon with the words from verse 25, “Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other.” We all gasped as we wondered whether the boy would crack open the melon then and there.
On Grandma's Porch Page 3