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If I hadn’t been so proud of the prize watermelon I had grown from the packet of special seed Pop had ordered from the State Experiment Station, maybe I wouldn’t have been so fighting mad when somebody sneaked into our truck patch that summer night and stole it.
I was not only proud of that beautiful, oblong, dark green melon, but I was going to save the seed for planting next year. I was, in fact, planning to go into the watermelon-raising business.
Pop and I had had the soil of our truck patch tested, and it was just right for melons, which means it was well-drained, well-ventilated, with plenty of natural plant food. We would never have to worry about moisture in case there would ever be a dry summer, on account of we could carry water from the iron pitcher pump which was just inside the south fence. As you maybe know, our family had another pitcher pump not more than fifteen feet from the back door of our house--both pumps getting mixed up in the mystery of the stolen watermelon, which I’m going to tell you about right now.
Mom and I were down in the truck patch one hot day that summer, looking around a little, admiring my melon and guessing how many seeds she might have buried in her nice red inside. “Let’s give her a name,” I said to Mom--the Collins family, which is ours, giving names to nearly every living thing around our farm anyway--and Mom answered, “All right, let’s call her _Ida_.”
Mom caught hold of the iron pitcher pump handle and pumped it up and down quite a few fast, squeaking times to fill the pail I was holding under the spout.
“Why _Ida?_” I asked with a grunt, the pail getting heavier with every stroke of the pump handle.
Mom’s answer sounded sensible: “Ida means _thirsty_. I noticed it yesterday when I was looking through a book of names for babies.”