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Granddaddy's Watermelon

Posted by Stuart at 08:45 AM on October 10, 2004

I sit on the beach alone, on a bamboo chair with my feet buried in the beach sand, thousands of miles away from everything I had ever known for the first 30 years of my life. Clouds, left over from last night's monsoon rain storm, still linger above me and hide the rising sun. The clouds, combined with the soft breeze blowing in from the ocean makes me forget that it is the middle of summer and helps me to ignore the strengthening sun.

This beach is my escape from my crazy city life in Bangkok. Here, the morning air is clean and cool and and I think of nothing. For once I do not think about the life I left behind in America years ago, nor my current responsibilities back in the City of Angels, nor nor my unknown, unseen future.

The waves come in, small and steady to lick the sand a few feet from where I sit. I close my eyes to feel the breeze on my face. No deep thoughts today, I just have the feeling of being alive, of being relaxed, of being alone with no past and no future. There is only the present.

I order some breakfast -- palomai ruam lagaw cafe ron (fruit salad and hot coffee) and soon a plate piled high of fresh bananas, papaya, pineapple, and watermelon sits on the bamboo table in front of me. I take a bite of pineapple. Delicious. The rhythmic waves and the cool breeze and the sweet taste in my mouth makes a perfect combination. I don't mind being alone. I don't mind the quiet. But it's a shame that I'm the only one to witness perfection.

I try the watermelon. So sweet, so juicy. Again I close my eyes and suddenly I am no longer alone. I open my eyes and my Grandfather, who left this earth many years ago, has apparently decided that now was the time to return.

He reaches for the fruit plate with a smile and grabs a piece of watermelon, taking a big bite. He too recognizes perfection and he too closes his eyes to savor it.

"Now, boy, that's some good watermelon, ain't it?" he asks me with a huge grin.

All of a sudden the bamboo chairs and table and the sand under my feet are replaced with a kitchen table in a farmhouse in a small Arkansas town. Granddaddy takes another slurping sweet bite and grins again, his entire bald head almost glowing with delight. The kitchen is Grandmother's domain, but every now and then it's a private club for a little boy and his Grandfather.

"It's always best when we get it right off the farm," he says, sprinkling a little salt on top of the melon. He moves closer, and whispers with a wink, "Now don't tell Grandmother because she'll be cooking dinner soon!" Sure enough, on the kitchen counter sit piles of other goodies from the garden that will be cooked and served soon. But Granddaddy knew that the watermelon just couldn't wait and he knew I would appreciate the secret bounty.

The neighbor's dog barks and suddenly the kitchen disappears, along with the piles of produce on the counter and the the kitchen table and my Grandfather. All that is left is the watermelon in front of me, on the bamboo table with a view of the sand and the surf and the clouds and the sun. The beach dog at my feet barks again, and looks up at me with begging eyes.

"Want a treat?" I ask him. His tail wags "Yes!" and so I hand him a little bit of watermelon, which he eagerly gulps and looks at me for more.

"Now, boy," I ask him, "that's some good watermelon, ain't it?"