You think it isn't going to work. Then you think it is, maybe. Then you are completely positive that this year, the watermelon project is a bust. Which is as it should be after all, since you never grew a watermelon before, ever, and this is not, after all, Texas, and especially not this year, with our 72 degree summer weather stretching out blissfully between rain storms. Except for when it gets incredibly hot for a weekend and of course you are out of town. You look at the shriveled vine on your return, and you know beyond the shadow of a doubt: I have killed this plant. It won't even make another flower. And then, a few days later, there it is. Between the potato pots, where it is as cozy, I suppose, as possible, bedded down in bark and dead weeds, a watermelon the size of your fist. Maybe it will ripen, maybe not. If it does, maybe it will be orange, like the amazingly flavorful variety from which I saved the seed last summer, or maybe not. Very likely, the one bite inside will go in Zelda's mouth, not mine. But the feeling when I saw it was pure, delicious surprise.
Otie brought Zelda a miniature white pumpkin last fall, just before Halloween. She held it and said his name for weeks. Then I guess it went in the worm bin, because here it is again. In a couple months, she can give it right back.