I love watermelon. Some people say experiences affect the way you feel about things - that those experiences translate into likes and dislikes. I believe I had a pure love for watermelon to start with, but my experiences enhanced that feeling.
I was about eight years old, riding with my dad in the car when we spotted a road-side stand selling watermelons. I begged him to stop and get us one and he did. Dad always flicked the melons with his finger. He explained to me that thumping the melons told you whether they were ripe. I imitated the motion, though I never quite knew what a ripe melon would sound like. I tried to talk him into buying the ones that were on ice, but he said those cost more. We could just put one in the ice box when we got home. (Ice box is another word for refrigerator, youngsters.) After meticulously choosing the perfect melon, Dad loaded it into our car and took it home to the fridge.
I could hardly wait to eat it, but after a few hours and after dinner, my brothers and sister and I
prepared to feast on watermelon. There was a ritual involved. It was a warm summer evening, so we spread newspapers on the table on our screened-in front porch. The table was a multi-purpose-former-dining-room table. We often used it for ping pong, but the watermelon ritual was by far my favorite purpose. Once the table was covered, Dad brought out the chilled watermelon and a big butcher knife. After cutting it in half, he carefully sliced off wedges until each of us had a slice, plus a few to spare. Now you may picture us biting into the watermelon and getting it all over our faces, but we were all nerdy little neatniks. We used forks. I remember trying to pick out every little seed before putting a bite in my mouth. We also liked to put salt on the watermelon. We sat around the table talking and laughing and enjoying the sweet treat. I love watermelon.
