Watermelon Man

Tuesday I stopped by my friend Adbesalam’s house, hoping to spend some time with him and his family, realizing I would be departing from Fes in a couple of days.   Abdesalam, one of our Arabic teachers when we were here in the eighties, is probably my closest friend in Fes.  One of my priorities when I am here is to allocate meaningful personal time to spend with him and his family.<

Showing up right about noon is not considered boorish behavior; regardless of when a person drops by for a visit, a lot of pressure will be exerted for the guest to stay long enough to have a meal.  Abdesalam had a doctor’s appointment scheduled that afternoon right after he completed his classes at noon, and it turned out that I didn’t get to see him then, but I did have a meal with his family, and had a chance, perhaps, to build another memory of my association with them.

There are seven children in the family, ranging in age from about 30, down to Salah Eddine, who is only 4.   I had walked several blocks getting to their home, and passed a couple of watermelon vendors who had set up shop on the sidewalk.  I considered buying one to take with me, that serving a sort of contribution to the meal I knew would be offered, and which I planned to accept.  I decided to wait though and assess the situation once I arrived.

After greeting the four or five people present, realizing it would be an hour or so before the meal would be served, I asked Tarik, age 12, to go with me to make a purchase.  We started walking back the path I had taken, when he suddenly asked me if it were a watermelon I wanted to buy.   When I said yes, he informed me that we should go to the “marchee,” that the watermelons were much better there.

Their neighborhood is located on the side of a large hill; the grade is steep enough that below the street, a full-blown fruit and vegetable market exists that is completely out of view, hidden by a wall with an opening, and steps leading down to the main “shopping” area.  I have been visiting this same location for at least 10 years, but always walked up the hill to their house, never noticing the commercial activity taking place so nearby.

Tarik located what he thought might be a good selection, slapped several watermelons with the palm of his hand, listening for the resonance that would indicate it was ripe, and settled on a choice before making an offer.   I had asked the price, but Tarik made an attempt, as the culture requires, for the retailer to give us a better deal.  The retailer stood firm and placed the watermelon on the scale, since price is determined by weight.  It weighed 11 kilos, about 25 pounds, a pretty good sized watermelon in any country.

The proprietor wanted to assure us it was a good choice, and suggested he cut out a plug, so that we could see and taste what we had bought.  He had a large kitchen knife handy, poured some water over it, wiped it with a cloth, and then said, “bismallah.”  Literally, that means “in the name of God” and is almost always uttered, much like a table blessing, at the beginning of a meal.   In that context, I thought it provided a sort of serious air to the occasion, cutting to the heart of the watermelon.  He extracted the two by three inch section of watermelon, cut us each a piece to sample, and then replaced it.  Tarik tasted his and pronounced it a good choice. His comment, “sweet.”

My father had a pastor friend who preached several revivals in the churches my father served when I was a child.  That’s just a little over half a century now.   The meetings were normally held in late June and early July, watermelon season, and I have vivid memories of Brother Whitt, as we called him, showing up and telling me to go look in the backseat of his car.  On several occasions, I remember discovering a large watermelon behind the driver’s seat, and getting excited about the unexpected treat we were about to receive.  Watermelon was then, and still is now, high on my list of foods I enjoy.  However, I think the fond memories I have of days so long ago are occasioned by more than just watermelon.  Brother Whitt always took the time to talk to you, even if you were a child, and that made him special to me.

Salah Eddine got pretty excited when we brought the watermelon in the house.  I noticed too that he had several servings before he finished his meal.  I wonder if fifty years from now he will remember the experience similar to the one I recalled.  If he does, I hope he has the same reaction I did when I recalled the past.   Sweet!


Fred

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