Whenever I eat watermelon I’m reminded of Deborah’s dad…of summers in North Carolina and the good times our family had.
While Deborah’s dad was still alive…still with us…from our creator…here on loan…he was perhaps the kindness and most gentle man I have ever known.
There are many things I loved about him…his tenderness…his generosity…his wit…but watermelon always makes me think of how I loved the way he spit.
As a family we loved picnics…playing in the fields…the rivers…the dirt…and we made sure that every picnic culminated with watermelon for dessert.
After we finished playing and eating we’d gather round the watermelon for it’s splitting…and as we each cradled our half-moon piece in our hands…we’d anticipate the spitting.
For that was our tradition…after Deborah’s dad had split it…we’d line up, put a watermelon seed in our mouth and see how far that we could spit it.
In all the years he was alive…every picnic we ever had…no one in our family could out-spit Deborah’s dad.
We loved to watch him spit those seeds…loved to see the happiness on his face…it never mattered to the rest of us…we only vied for second place.
That’s why whenever I bite into a watermelon…my heart and mind proceed…to picnics long ago and our family spitting seeds.
He’s been gone for many years now but I always eat watermelon with such glee…remembering all the seeds of joy he planted…on those picnics in NC.
Our children have all grown…we don’t have as many family picnics as he once had…
But I am lucky…for I still picnic often with Deborah
who happens to be…the spitting image of her dad.
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