Watermelon

Granddaddy’s farm truck reeked of metal, sweat and hay.

When summer reaches its peak, a sweet memory visits me: cow fields of lush green grass on Granddaddy’s farm in Beaver Dam. Granddaddy’s hair was white as angels’ breath, and he wore thick lens glasses that always looked too large for his face.

I enjoyed riding in his 1970s Ford farm truck. He kept a Maxwell House coffee can on the center hump of that old truck and a cheek full of tobacco. His worn leather gloves made his hands look large for his thin frame, and when he reached down to grab the cup to spit, his flannel sleeve would pull up revealing dark tattoos on tan skin that told stories of long ago.

That old truck reeked of metal, sweat and hay and would creak and shake as we ran over potholes on the dirt road along a shady creek. I often accompanied him when it was time to feed the chickens or cows. Cows hunkered down in the shade would glance lazily at us as we slowly rolled by. Rommel, Granddaddy’s black and gold German shepherd, would trot alongside, and every so often was lucky enough to catch a ride in the pickup’s bed.

One sunny day, Granddaddy loaded up the bed of his truck with grandchildren and freshly picked farm-grown watermelons. While riding on that wheel well, I remember looking up to see large clouds of cotton float through a blue sky. The truck stopped under the shade, the tailgate slammed down and out spilled bare-footed grandchildren in cut-off jeans.

Watermelon on a warm sunny day is a richly sweet treat like velvet to your tongue. Each grandchild grabbed a slice and found a spot among the shade. Sticky sweet juice rolled down my chin and collected in the dirt, drawing an audience of ants.

When my grandfather died in the Veterans hospital in Fayetteville on Aug. 29, 1993, at age 82, the memory of shady trees and watermelon came to me stronger than ever before.

Charles Jason Canady, Fayetteville