Watermelons Aren’t As Good As they Used to Be

After a long, hot week at work, my body decided it was time for fresh fruit. Not a polite suggestion either. More like a craving that grabbed me by the collar and marched me straight to the grocery store before I even had my morning coffee. I walked in with purpose, the kind of purpose a man only gets when he is convinced salvation lies somewhere between the apples and the cantaloupes.

The produce section greeted me with a proud display of fresh-cut watermelon. Every piece glowed with that deep red color that promises summertime magic. You know the look. The kind that makes you think of porch swings, cicadas, and the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer. I picked up a quarter of one, already imagining myself sitting in the cool of the afternoon, enjoying something sweet enough to make me forget the week I had just survived.

Well, that dream lasted right up until the first bite.

Turns out the watermelon had all the charm of a damp sponge. It looked ripe, but the flavor must have missed the bus. Not a hint of the sweetness I remember from years ago. This seems to be the trend now. Watermelons keep getting engineered to be seedless and convenient, and with every new version they lose a little more of what made them special. It’s like someone keeps photocopying the original, and each copy gets a little more faded.

When I was a kid, getting a watermelon was an event. A real family gathering. Someone in my mom’s family would bring one home, and before you knew it the whole clan was headed to my grandparents’ place. The front porch would be full of aunts and uncles, all talking over each other, and the yard would be full of us grandkids, all chomping away and spitting seeds like we were in some kind of championship. Those watermelons were sweet enough to make you forget your own name. The juice would run down your arms, and nobody cared. Sticky elbows were just part of the experience.

I can still hear the sound of those seeds hitting the grass. Little pops and pings as they bounced off the porch steps. Half the fun was seeing who could spit one the farthest. The other half was watching the grown-ups pretend they weren’t keeping score.

And the nightly watermelon races at wagon train were legendary. Kids would run like their lives depended on it, all for the chance to win a watermelon. Not a trophy. Not a ribbon. A watermelon. I can’t imagine anyone sprinting full speed for one of today’s bland, seedless wonders. That alone tells you how far we’ve fallen. Back then, winning a watermelon felt like winning a treasure chest. Today it would feel like winning a mildly flavored disappointment.

Sometimes I wonder if the watermelons really were sweeter back then, or if everything just tastes better when you’re ten years old and barefoot in the grass. Maybe it’s a little of both. Maybe the sweetness was in the fruit, and maybe the rest was in the moment.

Or maybe this is just me turning into an old fogey who thinks everything was better back in the day. Maybe I’m only one hot afternoon away from shaking my fist at kids and telling them to stay off my lawn. I can feel it coming. One more bland watermelon and I might start wearing suspenders and talking about the price of gas in 1989.

But I’ll tell you this. If I ever find a watermelon that tastes like the ones from my childhood, I’m calling the whole family and meeting on the porch again. Some things are worth reliving. Some things deserve a little ceremony. And some things, like a truly sweet watermelon, can make you feel like a kid again, even if only for a few bites.