Watermelon: a short story

Sometime last spring, maybe even winter, Kate began dreaming of growing watermelon in her garden frame. Before we left on the RV adventure, all the kids planted their seeds of choice and left them to be tended by the Master Gardener in our absence. Sure enough, upon our return, many flower and vegetable saplings greeted us. I was optimistic about our eventual crop—except for the watermelon. We’d had poor enough results with melons that I’d given them up. (One year of small, tasty cantaloupe, then the squash vine borer—or its relative—found our patch. Successive attempts were, literally, fruitless.) I tried to temper Kate’s optimism with little doses of potential reality, but she was undaunted. The vine grew longer. Flowers appeared. Tiny fruit began to swell. We clipped off all but the two best. One of those disappeared. With visions of delicious, juicy harvest, Kate kept her gathering basket handy. I worried about too much rain/not enough rain/garden pests/the boy next door. Summer waned. Growth plateaued just under size 1 soccer ball diameter. Fall was moving in and still no signs of ripening. Then one day we saw faint tinges of yellow on the bottom. Triumphantly, the gardener cut the cord and carried her baby inside. I, not having pre-approved this action and terrified that it was premature, googled what-produce-will-continue-to-ripen-after-being-picked. Thankfully, our friend Jud--who knows a lot about a lot, including gardening—arrived and assured us that a few days of incubation on the sunny deck could only help matters, and then we might as well end the suspense. And so, at last, she (with excitedly nervous wiggles) and I (with a few final pessimistic “Now, remember”s) made the fateful incision. With what result?? The green orb fell open to reveal a ruby interior. It tasted…like a ripe watermelon! Relieved, I photographed the moment. Beaming, slicing, serving, Kate reveled in her victory over natural odds and maternal naysayers, and savored the sweet fruit of success.