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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
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
