What do the boys of summer do these days? What became of the summers of looking forward to earning some money in the heat of the Florida sun? Have the migrants taken this fall football training ground from the boys of summer? I think so.
There was in my day, a wonderful group of watermelon growers, who did not rely upon the labor of Mexican or Haitian men with the dark,dark pigments and the unknown tongues, but the
good old redneck boys of the Mortgage hill hood.
I cannot give all the watermelon growers due credit, there were many, but two do come to mind.
There were only so many boys needed and it always seemed to be a waiting list to get on the crew of, not a man, but a woman, Mrs Louise Guess, 1891-1992.
Mrs Lucille was unique in the watermelon world in that not only would she work along with you,driving the truck in the field, but she would also provide a full course Southern meal, prepared by her we assumed. We would retire to her home, or under some shade oaks, and eat the pork chops, ham, butter beans, tomatoes with ice tea and lemon, laying back groaning, not only from the soreness and sunburn of the field, but the over indulgence. It was a time of hard work and laughter. Seems everyone chewed tobacco or dipped snuff, even Mrs Guess if t memory serves me. I recall one particularly funny incident where Mike "Wolfie" Parrish was working with Eddie Inman and I. Wolfie was younger and tried valiantly to impress us, howling like a Wolf upon command. While he was strong and muscular, he just had to have some of Eddie's Red Man Tobacco. He wasn't instructed that you chew and spit, not chew and swallow, which he did. The Howling of the Wolf Man turned to squeals of agony as he turned green as the melons he tried to pitch. I am sure it was the day we saved Wolfie from a life of tobacco. The position of honor in the watermelon field was that of the packer, the one who got to stay with the semi-truck and neatly stack the melons as we tossed them to him in a bucket brigade fashion from the field trucks. Turn,catch,throw, turn,catch,throw, over and over.
Once I was the packer but preferred being in the field with the crew, hearing all the banter and joking going on, like giving chewing tobacco to wolves...
Then there was a descending rank of growers, the last ones to usually fill their crews. One particular was John Alford Acree, 1912-1977. Alford had his fields out in the sand hills, offering little shade and no meals whatsoever. Alfred was a consummate old Florida red-neck, hard-working gentleman with a colorful story to tell, who could cuss you, the watermelons, the old pickup, the tractor, the wagon, the market up and down until the only relief you found was when he went storming off to another hapless field to cuss out.
But despite the gruff appearances, Alfred and his jovial son John Turner "Pee Wee", 1935-2010, were great to work for, not pulling any bull out of the old beat up hat. Alford was always the one we loved to hear tell of his stories around the camp fire down in the Fugate Gulf Hammock hunting camp C in the fall.
There were others we worked for in between, the Bullocks, Bells, Mixson's, Fugates to name a few, but these two stand out in my high school years during the 70's.
Come fall, we would return to the gridiron somewhat in better shape, certainly well-tanned
and ready to face the full-frontal assault of Coach Sammy Miller, another story in itself.
