I grew up spitting seeds. It was what you did while sitting on the porch with a thick, pie wedge of watermelon; a rosy stain on your face and running in streams down your arms.

My Papa grew the big oval melons with green zig-zag stripes and a creamy yellow underbelly. We’d go out to the garden – which to a little kid seemed to be the size of forever – where he’d thump, roll over and plug to uncover a perfectly ripe melon. It all seemed like some sort of alchemy to a small girl, not that I would have even known the word “alchemy” back then. Continue reading →