The Promise Of Seeds: Magic In A Packet
Wikipedia
Dear Fred,
Here's my revision, with punctuation.
Where I grew up in Irondequoit, New York -- originally a market garden community -- we usually called cantaloupes, "muskmelons."
There is even a named variety of cantaloupe/muskmelon called "The Irondequoit Melon."
"Loss And The Last Farms Of Irondequoit" https://www.democratandchronicle.com/.../loss.../2271901/
The sandy loam that underlies Irondequoit is some of the best agricultural soil in the world, having been the bottom of adjacent Lake Ontario before the last ice age receded 10,000 years ago.
On windy summer nights I could hear the waves break on "White City" beach, about a kilometer from my bedroom window screen.
Pax et amor
Alan
"The Cantaloupe On Uncle Earl's Kitchen Table"
In nearly every man's life, there appear women of such surpassing physical beauty that all neural circuitry freezes, and they are obliged to gape.
The better part of a decade ago, I saw such a woman at the Durham Costco.
She was entirely self-possessed; unflinchingly confident that she owned the space.
Without exception, the women in a dozen checkout lines were audibly silent, feigning nonchalance, pretending to look elsewhere.
One could speculate that this beatific vision was a soft machine sent by extraterrestrials -- for God knows what end -- perhaps to reduce mortals to the vulnerability of lust and mush.
Long, jet black hair cascaded and her eyes looked directly -- and affectionately -- at anyone with enough strength to hold a steady gaze.
She wore faded jeans, a black leather jacket and high leather boots, slightly muddied as if she'd been riding a horse.
Surprisingly, her accoutrements were not tacky but tasteful, her demeanor bold - even quietly defiant - as if to say 'I will not hide who I am just because most of you can't handle it.'
She recalled a line from Spanish novelist Emilia Pardo Bazan, "Con cinturón de avispa y pecho de nodriza."
*****
Only recently did Uncle Earl realize that his daughter Dee had entered puberty endowed with this same otherworldly aspect.
Earl was a fifth generation West Texas farmer of double digit intelligence and a helluva nice guy, eager to do the right thing, to go the extra mile to comfort the afflicted.
Twenty years ago, he married the young widow of a Mexican field hand whose scarf got caught in a thresher.
Ever since, un montón de costumbres mexicanas had become integral parts of family life.
El Día de los Muertos was just a day away, and Guadalupe had already positioned a carrizo arbor encima del altar en su cocina.
Under Earl's affectionate gaze, Lupe sat on the wallside of a plain wooden table, scribbling petitions and remembranzas on scissor-cut squares of brown paper bag.
The family's well-worn photo album lay on the bench alongside.
Soon, Lupe would combine pictures of departed loved ones with their corresponding script.
Earl sat across from Lupe, looming over an enormous cantaloupe, freshly harvested from the garden out back.
Earl's Mom died while he was still a toddler, leaving him unchurched. But in the simple workings of his nearly illiterate mind, he was impressed by Guadalupe's ardent devotion and unfailing faith in every prayerful invocation.
Lupe herself was orthodox in creating her ofrendas, but Earl had watched enough Spanish TV to know it was commonplace to craft ofrendas in honor of deceased cartel bosses and pseudo-saints with names like Santa Muerte.
At regular intervals throughout his adulthood, Earl had seen migrant girls elope in the night, still years shy of their quinceañera.
And so, Earl was determined to prevent the sudden disappearance of his own eye's apple.
But not wanting to worry Lupe, he was evasive, casually inquiring which saint protected women from menacing men, and Lupe replied as if she had waited her whole life to answer that one question.
"Pues, Santa Artelaida!"
In the middle of the night, Earl rose quietly, tiptoed to the kitchen and sat at the table, pen in hand.
Taking great care, he printed SANTA ARTELAIDA on a brown paper square, taped it to the back of his daughter's photograph, then tacked it to the corkboard above a row of vigil candles.
With priestly repose Earl placed the cantaloupe on the altar below.
He even got down on his knees, something he had never done before.
(continued below...)
Irondequoit Melon Historic Marker, Ridge Road (Route 104), Irondequoit, New York
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