When I was a kid, we always took a weekend trip to Georgia in August. We stayed with my grandparents and visited with uncles and aunts and cousins, but the main focus of the trip was watermelons. Someone would bring what seemed to be a truckload of watermelons to my grandparents’ house. The mothers laid newspaper on the picnic table and on the low concrete block wall around the patio. The older cousins got to light the citronella candles in hopes of keeping the mosquitoes away, and when all was ready, someone would start cutting huge slabs of juicy, red watermelon. My mother always sprinkled salt on hers. The boy cousins had seed-spitting competitions and we girls became adept at avoiding the flying seeds.
It’s been years since those watermelon days. My grandparents have long since left this earth, and I haven’t seen most of my cousins in a long, long time. But today we brought home a watermelon, and as soon as I took a bite, it all came back to me. There is nothing so sweet and refreshing as a watermelon and the memories of happy times.