Watermelon

At Scout camp we used to sing “The Watermelon Song,” a paean to one of the great delights of the garden: “Now southern fried chicken is mighty fine/But all I ask is a watermelon vine/Just plant a watermelon on my grave/And let the juice slip through.” Before there was air-conditioning, before there were ice boxes, there was the watermelon. Even today, there are few greater delights on a blistering hot day than a slice of cold melon. So head for your local grocery store or fruit stand, find the melons, and thunk ‘em until you get that hollow sound. That’s the one with your name on it.

Dancing

Folk music and folk dancing are nearly as common as watermelons in Western North Carolina during the summer. Shindig on the Green, Folkmoot, Square Dancing at the Courthouse, and more: these events are made for everyone who likes toe-tappin’ tunes and old-time dancing. Check out the dates for these events in The Smoky Mountain News events calendar or other local papers and pass an evening enjoying the music.

Pierre Reverdy

I stumbled across this French poet on the Internet. A surrealist writer who was once regarded by many contemporaries as the greatest poet of his time, in 1927 Reverdy converted to Catholicism and spent the rest of his life with his wife as a lay oblate in a religious order. His voice is muscular, his diction succinct and clear, his tone haunting. Some of his verses may be found online. Here is “The Secret (1918):”

The empty bell

The dead birds

In the house where everything sleeps

Nine hours

The world stands still

It seems someone has died

The trees look as though they are smiling

A drop of water hangs at the end of each leaf

A cloud crosses the night

Outside a door a man sings

The window opens without a sound

— By Jeff Minick