In the 1950s, I watched movies in which Roy Rogers chased outlaws who stole cattle and robbed banks. Of course, the bad guys were always caught and hanging their heads in shame as they were tied up and taken to jail. The good guys always won, and the bad guys always lost.
I was always the "good little girl." I drank my milk, cleaned my plate, put my toys away and tried to obey all of the adults in my life. I was a shy, quiet, only child and always did as I was told.
When I was sent off to stay with my grandmother, I met Rosie. Rosie lived across the street. She was my age, but she never drank her milk, never cleaned her room or did anything she was told to do. She had the best parents in the world; they didn't seem to care what she did or where she went.
If this had been the Old West, she'd have been an outlaw and robbed banks with Jesse James. I worshiped her. Rosie was fearless.
One day she picked me up at my grandmother's house and handed me a blue, bandanna-style handkerchief.
"Tie this across your face so no one will recognize you," she said. "We're going to steal a watermelon."
I tied the bandanna across my face. The two of us looked like real desperadoes-no one would recognize two skinny, nine-year-old girls walking around in July in 100 degree weather in Kansas with scarves across their faces.
I followed her as we sneaked through weeds that were taller than we were and got on our hands and knees to crawl under a barbed wire fence.
We were in the garden of "Old Man Mullins." Mr. Mullins had a huge watermelon patch and in July and August he had a wooden stand in front of his farm with a sign that read "Watermelons-$1 each."
Rosie pulled a genuine Hopalong Cassidy pocketknife out of her pocket and hacked away at a watermelon vine until she cut it free. She tucked the watermelon under her arm and we took off running, convinced Old Man Mullins would appear and chase us or arrest us or blast away with a shotgun.
We ran all the way to my grandmother's farm and hid behind the chicken house. Now we were going to eat a delicious, juicy, red watermelon.
Rosie cut into the watermelon. It was as green as green could be. The watermelons wouldn't be ripe for at least another month.
Now we were criminals, and it was all for nothing. Crime really doesn't pay.
I'd never stolen anything before, and I didn't exactly steal the watermelon, but I was definitely part of an outlaw, melon-stealing gang.
It was Friday evening and the DDT truck came through our neighborhood spraying DDT in giant clouds. In fact, we called it the "cloud-making truck."
All the kids would rush out into the dirt street and run after the truck, disappearing in the giant clouds. It was sort of magical to have a truck that made giant clouds. We had no idea we were being poisoned. We pulled strips of old paint off the barn and chewed it for hours; it was sweet and we'd never heard of the danger of lead paint.
Rosie said we could get rich by collecting pop bottles and selling them to the store for two cents each. We dragged around a gunnysack for two miles but only found six pop bottles and got paid twelve cents. Rosie bought candy with her six cents. Later that day, I walked to Mr. Mullins' house and left my six cents in his mailbox.
Rosie decided she was going to be a famous singer when she grew up and started singing all the time. She only knew three songs and just sang them over and over.
I liked her better when she was an outlaw, although I wasn't sure yet if God had forgiven me for being part of the watermelon gang.
Rosie moved away.
I didn't miss Rosie. I did wonder if she'd continued her life of crime or if she became a famous singer.
I never stole anything again.
I still like watermelon.
Crying Wind is the
author of Crying Wind,
My Searching Heart, When the Stars Danced, Thunder in Our Hearts, Lightning in Our Veins, and Stars in the Desert. See the order form on p. 18.
