Midnight Melon

Tap it.
Rap it.
Knock it.
Smell it.
Thump it.
Pick a dark one.
Look for one with a lot of scars.
Choose one with a white belly.

Watermelon. The nexus of summer fruit. Each summer I anxiously await one thing: the perfect melon. Sweet, juicy, deep red melon, peppered lightly with black seeds is the only reason summer bothers to grace us with her presence each year. Sadly, I do not posess the innate quality for choosing a good melon—I guess Black girls from Detroit not naturally have that talent. Each time I try, I end up with amelon that is too ripe (too sweet to eat), or not ripe enough (too bitter to eat). Disappointment ensues.

Again, colored girls from 6 mile and Livernois are not blessed with melon picking.

My dad, however, a Kentucky country boy at heart, is the melon picking master. Each summer he would be charged with the task of procuring the household melon. He rarely—if ever—failed. A brown skinned man with salt-and-pepper hair with a strong affinity toward four-lettered words, my dad always made sure he brought a melon for “his girls.”

And each summer from the time I was eight until I moved out, there is one night I remember above all others.

Around two o’clock am, I would awaken to my daddy’s footsteps on the ratty green carpeted steps. He would pad down to the kitchen and within seconds I would see a glimmer of pale yellow tinged light creep up the hallway and settle on my worn wooden bedroom floor. I’d hear the creak of the fridge open and I knew it was time.

Ever so gently I’d hop out of bed and follow my dad’s footsteps, careful not to disturb my slumbering sister and mother. In footed pink pajamas (or, as I grew older, t-shirts and grey cotton shorts) I’d ease my way into the kitchen where my dad would already be seated at the glass table with a hunk of watermelon, a salt shaker, and a plate for me.

Our conversation was limited. “Melon?” he’d grunt.

“Yeah,” I’d reply.

We would sit in near perfect silence—minus the low buzz of the fridge and the occasional cricket. My dad would shake salt on his hunk and I would just revel in his presence, eating my melon as naturally as it came.

I was especially devious, as my mother would always cut up the melon in perfect, bite-sized squares for easy snacking access. My sister and I were disallowed to eat slices of melon, as it was too messy. But my dad—he didn’t care. Confronted with a chunk of watermelon, I would let rivulets of sweet, pale pink juice would slide down my chin and drop onto the table. My padded feet would swing under the chair.

After a few moments, when both of us were stuffed and satisfied, he’d ask “done?” and I’d nod. He’d gather the plates, dispose of the evidence and return the coveted melon back to the fridge.

I’d go back upstairs, leaving my dad to turn off the lights and make sure the rind was wrapped up tightly so the summer ants would not march into the kitchen. The pale light would be shut off with the flick of a hand and I’d once again be bathed in darkness. My dad would creep back upstairs, pass my bedroom, and whisper “Night.” I’d reply back “ Love ya, dad,” roll over—satiated and content—and would be quickly enveloped by sleep.

Watermelon.