The watermelon appeared on the front porch one hot Saturday afternoon in September, sitting in my patio chair with dirt and bird poop on it. It was about the size of a basketball and nearly as round, and I looked across the street at the house and machine shed where Jim worked on his tractor and knew where it came from. I yelled for the kids and we hosed it off, pulled a little yard table and more chairs off the deck and into the grass and under the shade of the big elm out front.