JOY ALONG THE WAY: MELON FUN IN THE UPLANDS

August is the month of watermelons and tomatoes. If I were designing a collage for August I'd have the two fruits intertwining all around as a border. Inside the border there would be an entanglement of green beans, squash, cucumbers, sweet corn, okra, etc., but the entanglement would never overcome the bright green and red border.

Watermelons grow in deep sandy soil such as that of the Missouri Bootheel. Nevertheless, because we liked them so much we tried to raise them in the upland counties of the Ozarks where clay is a large component of the soil. No one was ever very successful which prompted brother-in-law, Curtis, to make an annual trip to the southern counties to procure a truckload of watermelons.

Word got around, primarily at the post office and Gruner's Grocery, that Curtis was off on such a trip. Plans began to be made for the merriment that would follow his return.

By the time Curtis returned we had already picked out someone's back yard as the site of our watermelon feast and had large tubs of cool water waiting, into which were deposited a suitable number of melons to cool before the festivities began.

One year a perceptive lad, having finished his half melon, and observing the amount of juice that had accumulated in the "bowl" of his serving, asked, "How does the water get into the watermelon?"

Most everyone was deep into his own serving, but everyone up in the Ozarks has an answer to such questions as this. Someone, in between servings, motioning with his fork for more, and wishing to contribute to the knowledge of the gathering said, "It soaks in through the skin."

At this, someone else yelled, "Quick! Get them there melons outta them water tubs before they swell up and bust."

Someone else offered, "Down there (the southern counties) the water is only about two feet beneath your feet and there are little suction cups on the roots, just like on tree frogs, and they suck the water up into the melon. Mississippi water." This was said with such straight-faced authority, no one laughed but turned to another watermelon tale.

"You know, I was in the city a while back," someone drawled, "and they served watermelon as a dessert and, get this, they sliced it round!"

"Round!" came a course of objectives, almost expletive.

"Well, I swan," said the leading hostess of the gathering. "It seems as if it would be hard to get at the red meat without leaving a pool of juice on the table."

"Oh, they had plates."

"Plates!" came more objectives. "Humph!"

Later each carried the rind of his serving or servings, cradling the juice, to a big container. From there it went to someone's hog pen or chicken yard.

Then the seed spitting contest began. Each one saved a seed to spit from the appointed place. Markers were put down and the owner of the one that was spat the farthest had the dubious honor of saving his seed, planting it the following spring to see if he could raise a melon bigger than any Curtis brought. He or she never did, at least while I was amongst them. I have no doubt, though, that they still have their annual feasts of watermelons, cut lengthwise, forks only, and more outlandish tales are told of how the water gets into the watermelons.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.