By Carole Corlew

The Iowan came in the other day and announced, “It looks like you have gourds
growing on the fence out there.” He had not found gourds, but produce from the
same family, cucurbits, or muskmelons in this case. I had fogotten about the
small transplants I put in early in the summer. I thought they had been devoured
by the ground-eating squash plants.

But there were multiple green orbs peeking from vines climbing through chain
links in the fence a previous owner had installed to keep the dogs in the back
yard. The Iowan had wanted to take out that fence. “It’s just so ugly,” he said.
But I wanted that fence as garden trellising.

But now I had the problem of figuring out when to harvest the muskmelons. I
have never grown them. I know to choose watermelons with a yellow patch to show
they are ripe, and to recognize the precise hollow sound made when thumped with
my fingers. Also, a piece of vine remnant is nice. But what about the
muskmelon?

I didn’t have to wait long. I found one of the ovals, a burnished netted
golden color, lying on the driveway. I thought I could hear it speaking to me.
“Hey, garden expert so-called. I am RIPE OVER HERE!” I scooped it up and carried
it inside, took a knife and sliced, with trepidation.

The flesh was firm, juicy, a lovely coral shade. I took a taste. The
sweetness sent a thrill through me. It tasted of honey. Of course. I had seen
honeybees all over that garden patch during the summer. I thought they had been
after the cleome. I had “planted” a whole, fresh catfish in that plot in late
spring, to fertilize. And everything that came up there grew like crazy.

I took a slice of the melon to the Iowan, the person I rely on to tell me the
truth, unvarnished. The chunk quivered on the knife, dripping juice drops. He
tasted. He looked at me, shocked. And in that moment the fretting and sweating
in the dirt with the bugs and the worms made it all worth it.

Because in those startling blue eyes I saw someone I had not before had the
pleasure of meeting: a tall, skinny blonde boy, standing in the garden with a
long-gone grandmother, tasting the fruits of her labors in the too brief,
unparalleled beauty of an Iowa summer day.

And that is the real reason why I garden.