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.

Stingy Jack

Happy Saturday readers, writers, and BryonySeries fans.

In honor of October and autumn fun, here's a short story excerpt from the third installment of Before the Blood.

It's the late nineteenth century in a fishing village in northern Michigan. The gathering is an all-age harvest party at Fisher Farm. The perspective is third person, from a sheltered nine-year-old's point of view, who's at the party with her aunt and uncle.

The storyteller is Owen Munson, the village leader. He just won a bottle of "Grandpa" Clyde Fisher's moonshine for winning a pumpkin carving contest.

If you'd like to know more of the Irish lore behind this piece of fiction, visit https://www.irishcentral.com/roots/history/jack-o-lantern-turnips-ireland

            Gradually, the men arranged the pumpkins, now grotesquely carved and lit with candles, around the bonfire, which now burned lower, less brightly.

            "Owen, come git yore prize!"

            Mesmerized, Bryony watched the flickering eyes of the cadaverous lanterns.

            "Now, you young'un's know the legend of the Stingy Jack?" Mr. Munson asked.

            The reply was a chorus of. "Noooo!"

            Immersed in the mystery of the night, Bryony could only watch Mr. Munson and shake her head.

            A sly expression crossed his face, and he took a swig from his well-earned bottle.

            "Well, it just so happens Stingy Jack's legend begins with a bottle just like this."

            Mr. Munson held it up for all to see.

           "Now everyone knows," Mr. Munson dropped his voice, "that the devil makes the best moonshine around." He raised his eyes and the bottle. "No slam, Clyde!"

            "None, taken!"

            "So Stingy Jack longed for some of the devil's brew, but he didn't want to ante up for it. 'Course, he wouldn't share that information with you-know-who. So he washed his face and combed his hair and knocked on the door of hell and told the devil he wanted to buy his best spirits."

            "'Why, come in, Jack,' the devil says, setting down his pitchfork and opening the furnace door wide. 'I've got just the thing.'"

            "So Jack goes inside, drinks up the sample, and says, 'Oh, ho, devil, you have to get up early in the morning to trick Old Jack. I said I wanted to buy your best spirits.' And Jack threw down the glass."

            Mr. Munson's eyes swept over the crowd. "Now what do you  s'pose happened to poor Jack?"

            No one answered. Bryony's mouth hung loose, and she shrank lower on her hay bale..

            "Well, the devil says, 'Why, Jack, you are a clever man. I only save the best spirits for the most worthy of drinkers.' And the devil brought in a fresh glass for Jack to taste.'

            "Jacks drinks it up, smacks his lips, and again throws down the glass. 'Mr. Satan,' Jack said, 'I'm beginning to think the tales about your moonshine are false. If you don't have anything better'n this, I'll be on my way.'

            "But as Jack turns to leave, the devil grabs him by the throat. 'Now, Jack,' the devil says, 'I'll have no dissatisfied customers, especially when they are as discerning as you. Wait here."

            Mr. Munson took a gulp and swiped his mouth on his shoulder.

            "So Jack waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits. After a long, long wait, the devil trots in with a glass of the clearest brew Jack ever did see. Jack, delighted the devil finally brought forth the goods, savored that drink, sip by itty bitty sip, until he was done."

            Mr. Munson paused, grinning as wickedly as a Hoberdy lantern.

            "'Did you enjoy it?' the devil asked. "I've had better,' Jack said and turned to the door, only to find the door had disappeared into the flames, as had the walls and everything else except for him and Satan.

            "'It's time to settle your debt, Jack,' the devil softly said.

            "This frightened Jack, but he still was keen on outwitting the devil. 'Lookee here, Satan,' Jack said. 'I've somehow misplaced my wallet. If you just let me run home, I'll be back lickety-split with your money.'

            "'I'm afraid it's not that simple, Jack,' the devil replied.

            Mr. Munson took a gulp of Old Man Fisher's moonshine and a step toward the audience.

            "'You see, Jack, anyone who's tasted my prized spirits can no longer enter heaven, but because you tried swindling me, you ain't fit for hell, either.'"

            Mr. Munson moved closer to the hay hales.

            "This frightened Jack. He wished he never heard of the devil or his moonshine."

            Mr. Munson leaned close to the front row.

            "'There's only one way to pay for this, Jack. I'm gonna have to take..."

            He grabbed Freddie Betts' throat, and Freddie slid right off his bale and out of Mr. Munson's clutches.

            "Your soul! MUAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!"

              Freddie sprinted to the outhouse. With a snarl and a chuckle, Mr. Munson brought the bottle to his lips, leaned down, and scanned the faces before him.

            "Now that the devil had poor Jack's soul, he needed a place to stick it. So he sliced the top off a juicy pumpkin, gouged out some eye holes, and a nose hole, and a mouth hole so Jack could see the world he lost, stuffed Jack's soul in, and popped back the top."

           An invisible force lured Bryony's gaze to the rows of Hoberdy lanterns, their lost souls cavorting in hellfire and damnation. 

Ed Calkins: New Fame, Noah's Arc, and Newspaper Delivery

Dear MOMI,

Having now experiencing the tribulations of fortune, I realize what a target I am. 

I must be prepared to answer those nasty question for unsavory tabloid ‘news’ outlets looking for any trifle of scandal they can exploit for the purpose of lining their pockets. In addition to implying that my future one hundred wives were some kind of polygamy victims, that the IVA is a hoax, or that my thoughts are really not as ruthless as rumored, they will also cast suspicion of my research into the goddess’ (Denise by a less lofty name) genealogy.

I could just admit that I made the whole thing up, which as an Irishman, is my duty and right, but that lacks the fun of telling the story about the story. Better I mention that there is a natural choke point in tracing anyone’s Irish genealogy and there is a well disturbed book about it. I can tell you the story from a different point of view.

I have to warn you, that you know this story despite my embellishments so think of this as a test of wit. The sooner you groan the wittier you are.

Known between the pages by a shorter name, I tell you the tale of Genoa Good. Professionally, he lacked stability; being first a wander, second a ship builder, and third a zoo keeper. (Are you groaning yet?) 

What his extended family called him is unclear, but Genoa Good was called so because it started only thing he ever said to anyone unrelated. Though unreported by this other source, he was hoping to cut a deal with this book’s protagonist to advert the promised destruction. Personally, I think he thought it the standard contract as was offered elsewhere in the book.  

His frantic question slurred words, so it came out “ja-know-a-good man?”, “ja-know-a-good woman?”, or “ja-know-a-good child”. To this question people would laugh because, as you surely know, there were no good people then excluding his own household. Later his questions kept the predicate but changed the object. “Ja-know-a-good plumber, carpenter, ship builder, or veterinarian. (You’re almost out of time if you haven’t groaned.)

It was when the rain began, that people started searching to ask him a question. In their desperate haste they shorten his name to something you should recognize ‘Knowa” which because of ancient autocorrects became “Noah”.

By now the story should come back to you as it often comes back to me. I promised this story from a different perspective. While the book talks of the people inside this "Noah’s Arc." I can tell the story of those not allowed within; the spiritual have-nots if you will. I don’t blame Noah. 

He begged the righteous to come to the safety of his arc before the bad weather. He begged the rest of us to change our ways first. Still, those of us who lived back then always get a little nervous when it rains too many days in a row. Some advice we can give you. If you ever see a double line of animals marching in some direction, grab a partner, put on a fur coat, and get in line. Once the Arc doors close, they don’t open for anyone.

As it happened, I was delivering the Noah’s residence newspaper route when the rains came. I didn’t drown; I wasn’t allowed to because of the job. Because of this, I kept a small wooden boat in case of flooding.

OK, here’s where I get in trouble. Those of you who’ve read the other source know that the world was flooded because of mankind’s wickedness and naturally you imaged sins of the flesh in the most decadent forms. Let’s face it, sex sell and the Bible is the best seller of all times. Even Denise might never out-sell it.  The truth is, half of humanity was stealing newspapers from the other half that were not paying their bills and/or tipping their carriers.

Always, I could expound on my adventures of the time who all humankind was either drowning or seasick and I had the only paper route left. I could tell you how heroically I rowed, how epicaly I threw, to ensure that everyone seasick got the right paper. But to do so, I’d have to brag.

So tracing anyone’s family line has a really good chance of being at seasick on that arc. So too, it follows that anyone seasick on that arc got a newspaper and is listed on my Noah’s route list. I trace Denise’s line from there. 

Ruthlessly yours,

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

What Happened to Bertrand...

...on Calkins Day?

Because he was suspiciously absent.

Well, not really. But here's what happened.

As soon we pulled up to Book and Bean, I realized I'd made a horrible mistake. I had forgotten Bertrand. He was at home in my lunch box.

My son Timothy, ever gallant, offered to drive back to fetch him. I did not ask Timothy to do this. Again, I did not ask him to do this. Just so we're clear on this point.

But I was happy he offered. How horrible if Bertrand had missed his chance for a photo with the real Steward of Tara!

Fifteen minutes later Timothy calls. He can't find Bertrand. So I check my coat pockets. Ooops! I had moved Bertrand earlier. I had him. Sorry. :(

When the festivities had ended, and we had returned home, I realized I hadn't taken Bertrand's photo with the steward.

Now some might say I had forgotten all about it. But I say this.

Bertrand was so afraid of the ruthless dictator, he hid in my coat pocket all night. See? Here's the proof.

And this is the last bit of posting I'll eek out from Calkins Day.

Enjoy the day readers, writers, and vampire fans! :)