Football and Watermelons by Jordan Thompson “Nothin. Waitin’ on an answer,” he says. “From who?” I ask. “Depends on where I go.” My stomach begins to churn for resolution, but I am lost in a funny angle. The late September Sunday is warm and cloudless; inside the room is a different forecast. I am sitting in an old black recliner, right beside my Grandpa. He is laid up in bed with a white sheet covering him. We are eating small wedges of watermelon. His pale hands with thick wormy veins clutch the tender matter. My Grandpa used to be a big ol’ man, with arms as thick as eight-inch pipe. As a kid I often wondered how many times he would hit his head on ceiling-fans in a day. “Bubba, how do you think the Skins are going to do against the Bears?” Bubba is what everyone in my family has always called him, from his size, naturally. “I don’t know, son.” “Well, this is Gibbs’ second year.” “Son, I believe he’ll get ’em right. They might even win, like they did when you was a little boy. What about them Panthers? Are they gonna be around to play in January?” “Well, the Panthers . . . who knows’”? “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” “I hope so,” I reply. “Son, I don’t believe I want anymore of that.” He hands me the small white plate. There isn’t a single bite taken off the watermelon wedge. “Okay. You want anything else?” “Nah. I don’t have the stomach for it anymore.” “Alright, Bub.” “Do you remember going to pick watermelons with me?” he asks. “Vaguely,” I reply, even though I know that this is one of his favorite stories to tell. “Ha ha.” His laughter is cut short by a session of violent crackling coughs. “Excuse me, son.” I hand him the small blue waste basket for him to spit the matter into. “Where was I?” “Watermelons.” “Yeah. Lord . . . it was hot that day; that was a hot summer anyway. You weren’t but five, maybe six. You volunteered . . . to go pick watermelons with me, toot.” That’s his nickname for me. He gave me that nickname after the captain’s hat I used to wear, when I was five. “Ya’ mama said, good luck tryin’ to work him. We had only been at my little garden for about an hour.” What garden is he talking about? Every garden he had could easily feed a small city. “Then you just up an fell to the ground. I was worried so I picked you up and took you to my ole green Dodge truck. You remember it?” “Yeah.” “I gave you my handkerchief and you wiped ya’ brow. And then, do you know what you said?” “What’s that, Bubba?” “You said, ‘Bubba them watermelons is done turnt into elephants and I can’t handle em.’ Then the best thing was, ‘I done tried work long enough; I don’t like it and I don’t think I’m gonna do it anymore.’ Good luck with that, Jack, ha ha ha.” I have found my point of comfort. Jordan Thompson is originally from Candor, NC; he now lives in Greenville and is a creative writing student at ECU. His family and the town of Candor and his experiences there have been the main influence in his work; he feels that writing is the best form of therapy. Jordan states, “Sometimes you just have to write about your experiences to deal with them.” As far as authors, Ernest Hemingway has played the largest role in developing his style as a writer: “The iceberg is the subconscious on paper, it is what it is; you figure it out.” About “Football and Watermelons,” he says “This piece was inspired by time spent with my Grandfather Kellis. Rather than lie in the mire of the present, I wanted to walk through the garden of the past. That's enough of a hint for the reader.” Copyright © 2005 by Jordan Thompson. Photo by Leanne E. Smith.