Tastes Like Summer to Me

My legs swung back and forth asynchronously as I sat on my grandparents' white wicker lawn furniture. Although it was made to withstand all weather conditions, my grandparents kept the two single chairs and one love seat on their large, red brick-paved, covered porch. I continued to watch my legs as they swung - back and forth back and forth back and forth. I had already grown tall enough for my feet to touch the ground, but I enjoyed the detached feeling of my bare feet grazing the coarse brick. So, I tucked myself into the back corner of the chair, tightened my stomach, and lifted my legs, watching small shadows racing back and forth over the bricks - never touching, forever swaying.

My Southern grandparents, as I called them, were born and raised in the North. By the time I came into existence and limited everyone else's categorization to my own worldview, they lived in the South - hence how I labeled them when I was young. Judy was a woman of strong faith, and although Jerry went to a Catholic school growing up, he only remained a man of faith for the sake and comfort of his wife. Jerry's passions rested in the arts instead of the rosary - my grandparent's garage was filled from floor to ceiling with a history of his paintings ranging from delicate portraits of people whose names I didn't know to fierce, boldly colored jungle animals jumping off the canvas towards you. It was a space filled with the work of a natural artist that never got his rightful recognition, or maybe he just never wanted the recognition in the first place.

My grandparent's house was always the gathering place for family events. It was where the grandkids scrambled to find Easter eggs - each one initialed because my grandparents couldn't bear for the candy and money inside to be unevenly distributed. It was where my grandfather's hands would shake from the weight of his Christmas crown roast and Thanksgiving turkey as he pulled it from the oven - proud of the beast he had just conquered in his own, modernly refined way.

It's the house where we spent summers - every summer when I was younger. The summers when my younger cousin and I would sneak around the house thinking our grandparents were asleep. When we would learn to play Rummy or gamble - although we only ever bet with crisp, cold cherries, never real money. Still, that didn't seem to diminish their value in our minds. These were the summers when my cousin and I were allowed to stay up as late as we wanted so long as we still dragged our butts out of bed on Sunday morning to make it to church on time.

These were the summers when we would spend seemingly endless days in the pool that was conveniently stationed in my grandparent's front yard, barricaded by their garage and a gate leading to that red-bricked porch.

Every summer my cousin and I would spend weekends with my grandparents, burning to a crisp under the sweltering Texas sun despite the layers of sunscreen my grandmother layered onto us (even as we moaned with discontent). Every summer there seemed to be accidental family reunions that took place on that red-brick porch overlooking the swimming pool. The adults would sit, drinking martinis or mimosas, or maybe even just a glass of water, while the kids played Marco-Polo or chase in the pool.

These were the days when Papa Jerry would cook up hotdogs, or hamburgers, or ribs, or anything else that could be thrown on the grill. He would serve whatever dish he chose to cook up that day to his sunburnt, soaking-wet grandchildren as they decided to air-dry on his wicker furniture instead of drying off with a towel like "civilized" people.

By the time we finished our lunches, our faces were covered with crumbs and ketchup, or some other condiment that just didn't make it into our mouths. Our skin was dry and tight from the pool water evaporating and leaving behind chlorine to bake into our skin. With full stomachs and skin only just starting to burn, we were ready to jump back into the pool - to soak up whatever hours of sunlight remained before the mosquitos returned for their evening feasts.

Right as we were peeling our legs free from the wicker chairs, Papa Jerry would poke his head out the front door, look at his grandkids impatiently waiting for the "okay" to get back in the pool, and break the terrible news that we all knew was coming: "You can't go back in the pool yet. You have to wait 20 minutes, or you'll get cramps."

My cousins and I would break out in a chorus of dramatic cries, and a smile would creep onto my grandfather's face, "Well, if you're that impatient to get back in the pool, I'm sure you wouldn't want any dessert..." He would trail off - leaving our interest piqued and our attention focused on him.

"Dessert!?" One of us would exclaim, although we already knew what was coming next.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't want dessert. Then your 20 minutes would have to start all over again!" Papa Jerry would explain, although he never really expected that to deter us. This feigned disinterest always earned him some giggles and toothy grins - fuel for a grandfather.

After we spent enough time badgering him, Papa Jerry would throw up his arms in defeat, walk to the kitchen, and bring back a plate of the best – and perhaps the only - summer dessert to eat after a day of swimming under the Texas sun: Watermelon.

He would bring out a tray of watermelon slices chopped into irregular triangles, doing his best to pick out the visible seeds since we were still at the age of believing a watermelon would grow in our stomachs if even one seed made it down our throats.

My cousins and I would quickly eat our share of the pieces, barely breathing between bites as we stuffed our faces - savoring the cool sweetness in contrast to the blistering heat. The sweetness would drip down our arms, cooling us down as it fell and as we ravenously filled our mouths.

Right before the last slice was eaten, another tray would appear with more slices of watermelon to satiate our appetites. I didn't find out until later how long my grandfather would spend in the kitchen chopping watermelon and picking out seeds - but only the black ones because those are the only ones that could grow in your stomach. Regardless, his moments of labor were devoured in seconds.

As soon as the watermelon was gone, and much to the chagrin of Papa Jerry, we would jump into the pool - the chlorine cleansing us of the sticky-sweet watermelon juice that had coated our arms and mouths.

In feigned outrage, my grandfather would come to the edge of the pool to chastise us. He would wave his hands dramatically, telling us all about the consequences we would suffer from not heeding his advice about waiting 20 minutes before getting back in the water. His feet always balanced precariously on the pool's edge, and the temptation would always be too strong, especially for the one-track minds of children.

Someone new would start the "attack" each time, sneaking out of the pool, tiptoeing behind my grandfather, ready to push him into the water. Of course, Papa Jerry never missed a beat and always saw it coming. He would fling us back into the pool as we charged at him. One by one we would cling onto his legs or jump onto his back, and he would pluck us off as if we were just overzealous ticks that needed to be flicked back into the woods.

Eventually, and unsurprisingly, the army of grandkids would win - whether by sheer luck or my grandfather deciding it was just time, we didn't know, but that never took away from the experience.

Just like I never knew until much later in life about the work my grandfather put in to feed his grandchildren something as simple as watermelon each summer, it wasn't until years down the line that I noticed how he took his moccasins off and emptied his pockets before coming outside to chastise us about jumping into the water too soon. Just like the watermelon, he worked to maintain the illusion for us.

Years passed since those summers, only ever reemerging in waves of nostalgia. I grew older, slightly more responsible, and incredibly desperate for work and cash. My grandparents would offer to pay me to housesit and, eventually, dog-sit once my grandparents got their Maltese they fittingly named Monet. They would never forget to leave a fully stocked fridge and pantry, and a crisp $20 on the counter, encouraging me to buy pizza, get extra groceries, or just pocket the cash.

Even though I would always pocket most of the money, I consistently purchased one thing while staying at their house. It's a craving that tends to hit me a lot over the summers but became nearly insatiable while I was housesitting for them: Watermelon. Maybe I had been inadvertently conditioned to associate my grandparent's house with all things watermelon (B.F. Skinner would be proud), or maybe I simply had a constant craving for watermelon that just became more urgent inside that house. Either way, I never failed to make a trip to the local grocery store to purchase a personal-sized watermelon.

Immediately after coming back from the store, I would pull out the biggest knife in the drawer and a massive wooden cutting board - one with indents all around the rim to keep the juices from spilling over onto the counter. I would slice down the middle of the fruit, set half to the side, and chop the other half into manageable chunks that could easily be retrieved later. Maybe I even dropped a few small pieces on the ground for Monet in the process, too.

I would neatly package up the cubed watermelon pieces, place them into a leftover Tupperware container, and then find a home for them in the fridge. I would then take the other watermelon half and a spoon, make my way to the den, and collapse into a leather couch that was older than me but still released a scent of new leather. I can still smell that couch to this day if I shut my eyes and picture it, the leather smell hitting the back of my throat in such a way I can nearly taste it.

I would sit with my watermelon bowl, spooning bites into my mouth while watching whatever I could find on TV, only eventually leaving my spot to take Monet for a walk. Those were blissfully simple days fueled by the saccharine fruit I grew up on.

Time continued to pass, as it does, and when my grandparent's house flooded for the third time in two years, being totaled every time, a wave of defeat washed over the family that all centered around the sense of loss my grandparents were shouldering. A loss for the material memories and antiquities that had been brought home to that red-bricked porch: my grandfather's paintings, train set, and Pontiac Solstice; my grandmother's Lladro statues, jewelry collection, and their shared floor-to-ceiling library alcove.

Something many people don't realize about memories is that they're always there, always hiding in the back of your mind long after you think you've completely forgotten something. Once they've made it to long-term memory, those moments and pieces of knowledge never really fade, they just become harder to recall. Sometimes those memories need a little push to be brought forward - a cue. A deck of cards to remember playing Rummy with grandchildren on a blistering summer day. A child's painting of a wolf for a grandfather to remember teaching his granddaughter how to bring her favorite animal "to life" through art. A slice of watermelon to remember toothy grins and sun-soaked summer days.

It wasn't just the items that were lost - items are replaceable - it's the memories that are harder to replicate. But the memories surrounding that piece of fruit - a simple thing that can be repurchased every year and shared with friends and family - always come back during the summer, oftentimes replaying more vividly and wistfully in my mind than the previous year.

Looking back, it seems ridiculous to claim something as simple as watermelon has no replacement as my favorite summer food. But it doesn't need additional ingredients when the feeling of comfort and the sentimental value it provides is heightened by flashes of memory surrounding gleeful moments of eating watermelon with a cousin who went from a best friend to mere acquaintance within the span of a year. Those moments when watermelon juice dripped down our arms and into our laps, our smiles wider, toothier, and more carefree than they'll ever be in our adult lives. This is the taste of summer. This is a taste of happiness.