A Yellow Watermelon. Ted Dunagan

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      A

      Yellow Watermelon

      A novel by

      Ted M. Dunagan

      Junebug Books

      Montgomery | Louisville

      Junebug Books

      P.O. Box 1588

      Montgomery, AL 36102

      Copyright 2008 by Ted M. Dunagan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Junebug Books, a division of NewSouth, Inc., Montgomery, Alabama.

      ISBN-13: 978-1-58838-197-2

      eBook ISBN: 978-1-60306-076-9

      LCCN: 2007039151

      Visit www.newsouthbooks.com

      To Poudlum,

      my good friend who knew a good melon

      when he saw one.

Table of Contents

       1 — The Sawmill

       2 — Jake

       3 — Dinner on the Grounds

       4 — Nail Soup

       5 — Snakes

       6 — Bullies

       7 — Milk and Butter

       8 — The Bootlegger

       9 — The Still

       10 — The Money Tree

       11 — The Cotton Field

       12 — Fire

       13 — The Cotton Gin

       14 — Hiding Out

       15 — The Whiskey Maker

       16 — School Clothes

       17 — Lying On Sunday

       18 — Up a Tree

       19 — Robin Hood

       20 — Down the Creek

       21 — The Miracle

       22 — A Yellow Watermelon

1

       The Sawmill

      I was forbidden to play at the sawmill, but from behind Miss Lena’s store where I was nibbling on a chocolate-covered MoonPie and sipping on a peach Nehi, it beckoned to me through the shimmering heat waves.

      The store was located where Friendship Road reached a dead-end at Center Point Road. There were no signs; I just knew that was what everyone called those dirt roads. The big log trucks would come roaring up from all three directions, spreading a thick layer of red dust on the roadside vegetation; then they would turn in beside Miss Lena’s store to deposit their loads of logs thunderously at the sawmill behind the store.

      I was turning twelve years old that late summer of 1948, savoring my last days of freedom before I had to start back to school in the fall. School was like being in prison while being forced to learn things, not to mention that you had to be scrubbed clean and wear a shirt and shoes. I spent a lot of time that summer trying to figure out a way to avoid having to go back.

      The steady droning of the great saw blades began to abate and I knew it was noon. It was also Saturday, and I knew the sawmill would be deserted soon because the men, including my father, would collect their pay envelopes and go directly to Miss Lena’s store for groceries or to the bootlegger for whiskey. My father usually went for groceries, but sometimes he drank whiskey.

      My job wasn’t finished yet, though. I had seven more Grit papers to sell. I remember being so excited back when I received my first fifteen papers along with a canvas bag to carry them. Also, there came a thin folding envelope with slots to place dimes, nickels, and pennies into before mailing them back. The paper sold for a nickel. I returned three pennies and kept two for each paper I sold. With a complete sell-out I made thirty cents, which seemed like a fortune. The catch was that I had to mail in forty-five cents each week whether I sold the papers or not. So far, I had never been stuck with more than two papers. On those occasions, I usually gave one to my grandfather Murphy and one to my mother.

      Today hadn’t been a good day. Two of my customers hadn’t been home and two others just didn’t have a nickel to spare. I had seven papers left and three more stops to make. The sawmill had grown quiet, like a giant beast taking a nap. I drained my Nehi and took one last look toward the mill’s mountainous pile of sawdust and knew I would be back before the day was over.

      Before beginning my last five-mile trek, I ventured around to the front of Miss Lena’s store in the hopes of selling a paper to one of the sawmill workers. The only one I had any luck with was my father, who, after peeking inside my bag, flipped me a nickel and took a paper. I was glad to see the big bag of groceries in his other arm. He admonished me to watch out for snakes and to hurry home. I watched him walk away in his sweat-soaked shirt and pants and sawdust-covered brogans and decided I didn’t want to be a sawmill worker, but I did like to play at it. I watched his big broad back disappear around the corner of Friendship Road, walking toward home; then I headed east on Center Point Road seeking my fortune.

      By the time I reached the Mill Creek bridge, I was hot, thirsty, and my bare feet were burning from the sun-baked clay road. Off the road, down the bank, and underneath the wooden bridge, I stretched out on a big flat rock at the water’s edge and drank my fill of the clean, cool running water before I sat up and submerged my feet. The taste and feel of the water quenched my entrepreneurial spirit and I decided to quit for the day. I had never gone home with six papers before, but I did have the money Mrs. Blossom had given me.

      Mrs. Blossom was the first customer on my route each Saturday morning and she always bought a paper. Her husband ran the sawmill and they lived about a hundred yards from Miss Lena’s store. After pulling the Grit papers out of our mailbox this morning I had inserted them into my bag and walked directly across the road to her house. Once I was on the front porch, I knocked and, as usual, yelled through the screen door, “I got your Grit paper here, Mrs. Blossom.”