Last Laugh in a Watermelon Patch
Personal Texana for My Kids (And Others Interested in East Texas History and Culture)
During my 16th year in the summer of 1952, I was an East Texas kid looking for a way to earn some money.
Mr. Gibb Starnes — the husband of my dear 3rd grade teacher — was a watermelon farmer. I loved Mrs. Starnes so much that I thought her husband would most certainly be a great guy to work for— and he paid $5 a day. That sounded good to me.
Early in the spring I asked Mr. Starnes for a job working in his watermelon patch. He said “I’ll let you know later.”
I knew that loading 30 to 50-pound watermelons was hard work. But I figured if I started working early in the season — when the temperature was still cool and the work was lighter — I wouldn’t have a problem when it came to lifting the melons at harvest time.
The early stages of watermelon growing requires — hoeing weeds, fertilizing, and moving vine runners to the middle of the rows for plowing. I would have no problem with that work — and would be gradually adjusting to the inevitable changes that produce the dog days of an East Texas summer when it’s hot, sultry and miserable.
Spring passed and I didn’t hear from Mr. Starnes. Maybe he thought I was too scrawny compared to his regular workers — or maybe he just forgot about me. Any way “se la vie.”
In those days an east Texas farmer’s goal was to have watermelons ready for market by July 4th when prices were at their peak. Gibb Starnes had melons ripe and ready to ship on July 4th, but — unexpectedly— his regular crew decided to take off work for a picnic. They left him alone en masse.
Gibb Starnes was in a bind. He had a Dallas buyer for his melons. The railroad boxcar — setting on the side track near the depot in Hawkins, Texas — was waiting to be picked up by a freight train the next day.
He had to figure out some way to get the melons from the field into the boxcar. Gibb was ready to “scrape the bottom of the barrel” to find workers.
He was able to hire one strong young man for the day. Then it became obvious that he had not forgotten me. Because on July 3 he came knocking on the door of our house and asked for me. When I came out he asked, “Heh, Jimmy, do you want to work tomorrow?” “Yes Sir, Mr. Starnes,” I replied. Then he said “I’ll pick you up at 6 am.
I was up early, finished the breakfast of bacon, eggs, and hot biscuits that mother made for me. I was ready and waiting. Mr. Starnes and his other hired hand picked me up in his truck and we drove to his watermelon patch.
At the patch was a trailer hooked up to a tractor. The trailer had dual wheels on each side. The outer wheel was a little smaller in diameter than the inner one — a system that helped keep the trailer from becoming mired in the sand when loaded with melons.
Unfortunately, my feet didn’t have any special adaptations and they bogged down in the loose hot sand at every step. Simply walking required a lot of my energy — let alone the energy for lifting melons and placing them over the side frames and into the trailer. Gibb Starnes drove the tractor and pulled the trailer between the rows of watermelons as we loaded it.
My co-worker and I were on opposite sides of the trailer — picking up melons and putting them into the trailer. I was barely keeping up with the physically well-conditioned young man working the other side.
Becoming fatigued, I once got a little too close to the outer dual wheel. Its tire caught my foot and threw me down into the sand and rolled over my leg. The soft sand formed a cushion protecting me from having a broken leg. I was startled and embarrassed, but not physically hurt.
As I was scrambling to get up, Mr. Starnes ran over to me and yelled in my face. “You’re the clumsiest boy I’ve ever seen. Stay out from under that wheel!” It was not exactly a Norman Rockwell scene.
His verbal attack added insult to injury. I was very angry — a fact that helped me press on with the agonizing work. After a while the tractor stopped and there was a welcomed break from the misery.
I saw Gibb Starnes get off of the tractor seat and head quickly into the bushes. I didn’t question why — nor did I care. I was just grateful for the the time out to rest a bit. I leaned wearily against the trailer — now beginning to fill with melons — and dozed momentarily.
Suddenly I was aroused from my precious rest by the blood curdling screams of Gibb Starnes — running out of the bushes like a banshee warrior with his pants down around his legs and shrieking to the top of his voice, “snake.” A serpent had slithered between his legs while he was squatting in the bushes to defecate. His ophidiophobia kicked in and created a startling and delightful sight for his audience of two.
Broad wide grins came over the faces of both Gibb Starnes’ hired hands as we enjoyed immensely the spectacle occurring before our eyes. I felt that I had gotten the last laugh of the day — an immensely gratifying laugh. That little bit of rest — and especially the delightful humor — helped me make it through the rest of that miserably hot day.
Later — by the railroad depot — my fellow worker and I transferred the melons from the trailer into the railroad boxcar. As we were working, Gibb Starnes disappeared into Petty’s Café — I assume for libations and gabbing with friends while happily escaping the summer heat.
As we emptied the trailer into the boxcar, my co-worker dropped a big melon and it cracked wide open. Gibb — still in the café — was not there to scold or reprimand. The watermelon’s red juicy interior looked awfully inviting on that hot summer afternoon.
I don’t know if the melon was dropped accidentally or on purpose. I didn’t ask any questions.
But I still fondly remember the exquisite sweetness, the glorious juiciness, and the fine crisp texture of that watermelon belonging to Mr. Gibb Starnes. At the writing of this story — almost 69 years since that July 4th — its recollection remains an enjoyable part of my life.
For the second time that day, I was grinning again — ear to ear! My co-worker and I had our own little picnic on that long ago 4th of July afternoon by the railroad tracks in Hawkins, Texas.
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