Watermelon Yarn

This week is unintentionally evolving into a watermelon week.

Yesterday I posted a novel way to eat watermelon. So in keeping with that theme, today I will post a watermelon story that appears in two BryonySeries books.

Context: Eleven-year-old Bryony Marseilles and her strict father live alone in a big house. Bryony doesn’t realize she’s lonely until she spends three months with a large family of girls at their farm. For the first time, Bryony can run free and enjoy the company of her peers. She learns people and situations aren’t always what they seem – and that people, even Bryony, change.

In this excerpt below, Bryony enjoys her first taste of watermelon with her summer farm family. And that watermelon is served up with a watermelon "yarn" from Munsonville founder Owen Munson.

This excerpt appears in two BryonySeries books: Summer Sisters and Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles. 

For another of Owen's yarns,, read this post (with introduction) of Stingy Jack.

The next morning, the mustangs were gone, and beef showed up on the breakfast table.

            "Don't be sad, Bryony," Rose said. "That's why the Grandpa Clyde and Mr. Munson break them, to sell them."

            "Every horse?"

            "There'll be more."

            To celebrate, Grandpa Clyde dug up the first watermelons ever grown on Fisher Farm, hauled them in a wheelbarrow to the fields where the girls were weeding, and then sent Robbie to fetch Mrs. Fisher and the little girls.

            "Oh my! Oh my!" Mrs. Fisher exclaimed at the sight of the juicy scarlet flesh, laid out across the makeshift table of boards and sawhorses and practically begging to be eaten.

            WHACK!

            Mr. Munson's saw knife split the watermelon and rapidly fabricated it into slices.

            Grinning at Mrs. Fisher, Grandpa Clyde brought forth another melon.

            WHACK! Mr. Munson quickly chop-chopped.

            Grandpa Clyde grabbed the largest wedge. "Here, Maybelle."

            "Uncle Clyde, I can't...it's not my place..."

            "Now, Maybelle. Your hungry girls are pining for their first bite."

            "But..."

            "So please respect the tender conscience of an old man, and decide if his first attempts are worthy of consumption."

            WHACK!

            "Clyde, you're too polite," Owen said over another WHACK! "Maybelle, eat the damn thing already. I, for one, don't intend to languish."

            "Well..."

            All eyes watched Maybelle as she bit into the tender rosy flesh. The look on her face wasn't enjoyment.

            It was rapture.

            "Anything like Mississippi watermelons?" Grandpa Clyde reached for large chunk and gestured for the girls to follow.

            "Mmm, hmmm."

            Mrs. Fisher devoured the watermelon, expertly spat out the seeds to the astonishment of the girls, and frantically licked her fingers.

            The slices disappeared as fast as Mr. Munson cut them, with Mr. Munson eating more than any two people, although Robbie gnawed wedge after wedge to the rind with the speed of a hardworking beaver.

            "We're spoiling our appetites for supper," Maybelle wiped her dripping chin with her sleeve.

            "So we spoil our appetites." Mr. Fisher stole another slice. "We'll have bread and cheese and no kitchen clean-up."

            Bryony spat seeds with the rest and wondered how Reverend and Mrs. Parks might react if they could see her acting so common. Susan consistently sprayed farther than anyone, a feat that didn't escape Mr. Munson as he chopped the watermelon.

            "Clyde," Mr. Munson sighed. "I haven't seen seed-spitting this fine since the time we turned an entire city against us because of our watermelons."

            "A likely story," Daisy said.

            "What! Clyde, you never told these beautiful young ladies about our magnificent watermelon patch?"

            "Must've slipped my mind."

            Daisy still looked skeptical. "You're making it up."

            Mr. Munson slapped his hand to his chest. "Upon my beating heart, Miss Daisy, I swear, I'm telling the truth. Now if everyone will gather under that white bush yonder," he pointed to a Japanese lilac, "while I polish off the last of this delectable melon, I will share our strange tale. Clyde, if I forget a detail or two, feel free to chime in."

            "Whatever you say, Owen."

            Bryony eased onto the grass. Her stomach rolled like waves in the lake. Shallow breaths were safer.

            Maybelle reclined against the tree and clasped her hands over her huge abdomen, Marigold curled up near her legs and pillowed her hands.

            Daisy plucked grass; Lilac panted through gaping mouth; Ivy silently gagged;  Rose clenched her fists and closed her eyes.

            "My tummy hurts," Heather announced.

            Mr. Fisher faced the bean fields and hugged his knees.

            Robbie was snoring. Susan was petting Blue.

            Mr. Munson spat out the last seeds and then sprawled beside Clyde, who lay on his back and watched the clouds.

            "It was the winter of eighteen something, January, I think, and your Grandpa Clyde and I were footin' around back east. On a whim, we bought a big ol' field that was going cheap. And on that field was a little green house. Now, what do you suppose we found in the cellar?"

            "Watermelons," Heather said.

            Mr. Munson tweaked her cowgirl hat. "Wrong! There were turnips and rutabagas and potatoes, and pickles and preserves that weren't as good as your ma's and apple cider that was far, far, far better than your Grandpa Clyde's."

            "Thanks, Owen."

            "So your Grandpa Clyde said to me, 'Owen, we could live like kings off the rations until spring,' and I said, "Clyde, we could.' So we set up the checker board and didn't budge for three months, except to venture into the cellar for more cider and provisions."

            "What about firewood?" Ivy asked.

            "Didn't I mention firewood? "

            "No," Daisy said.

            "Oh. Well, there was a huge stack in the cellar. We had plenty all winter."

            "And meat?"

            "Miss Daisy, we had plenty of meat. Any critters sneaking into our basement and hoping to winter with us was skewered and roasted over the fire. That job fell to your Grandpa Clyde, because he kept losing at checkers."

            Grandpa Clyde snickered and slid his hat over his face.

            "Finally, the only item left in the cellar was a burlap sack."

            "A body!" Daisy cried excitedly.

            "Watermelon seeds!"

            "Wha...watermelon seeds?"

            "Miss Daisy, those watermelon seeds gave us the best summer of our lives. We planted, hoed, weeded, and by summer we had splendid watermelons: dark green on the outside and crimson-red on the inside, with seeds so black they looked like flecks of the devil's soul."

            A snort broke out under Grandpa Clyde's hat.

            "Now what do you think we did?"

            "Ate them?" Heather asked.

            "Ate them? We sold them!"

            "Oh."

            "Hundreds and hundreds! Nobody had seen fruit so sweet and ripe. Everyone spent so much on watermelon and giving away prizes for seed-spitting contests, the town went broke. The officials called an important meeting and unanimously passed a law against selling watermelon, and do you know why?"

            No one answered.

            "Because they said it was the devil's fruit, and everyone knows the devil's fruit causes frightful shakes and aches."

            "You had to stop?" Lilac whispered.

            Mr. Munson's face softened.

            "Miss Lilac, it takes a lot more than a silly law and fever or two to stop your Grandpa Clyde and me. For every watermelon we moved out of that field, we set a mossy boulder in its place. Day by day, the townspeople grew more frightened of our field. On July nineteenth an angry mob showed up. And that," Mr. Munson crossed his heart, "is the very last time I tasted watermelon. Until today."

            Ivy's eyes opened wide. "Were you hurt?"

            "They set fire to our watermelon field, but your grandpa and I were already an easy mile away, each of us carrying a sack of money and a sack of watermelon seeds. But we did stop to watch the thick smoke overtaking the sky. Foolish townspeople!"

            Mr. Munson ruefully shook his head.

            "Because they didn't understand watermelons?" Rose asked

            "Because they kept growing their fire, bigger and bigger, until it reached the candle factory, where they stored the saltpeter. The explosion destroyed the town. All they had left was a burnt field of rocks."

            "If that's true," Daisy said, "why didn't it make the papers?"

            "It did make the papers, well, all except the watermelon part. And who can blame them?"

            "I'm glad you and Grandpa Clyde got away."

            "That we did, Miss Lilac, although..."

            Mr. Munson shifted his gaze over the quivering form of Grandpa Clyde.

            "Although, what?" Daisy asked.

            "I don't know, Clyde. Is it wise to tell them?"

            Grandpa Clyde removed his hat. His eyes were merry. "Owen, you've gone this far..."

            Mr. Munson leaned in. "Can you keep a secret?" he whispered.

            They nodded.

            "We never spent our watermelon money. Eventually, they brought the town back to life and built big banks smack over our old watermelon field. So we invested our money in those banks."

            "Why? Stupid, mean town."

            Grandpa Clyde sat up. "Daisy, a good farmer always puts his money back into his field. And speaking of fields, Owen."

            On cue, Robbie awakened and rubbed his eyes.

            Mr. Munson sprang to his feet, swept off his cowboy hat, and bowed low.

            "Alas, my toils are not yet complete. And so, adieu, adieu, adieu!"

            Robbie disassembled the "table." The other three men headed to the fields: Mr. Fisher with his hands in his pockets; and Mr. Munson laughing, joking, and slapping Grandpa Clyde on the back.