The Foley Chain Gang

“…(watermelons) are what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took, we know it because she repented.” Mark Twain


It was June, 1955, watermelon season in Foley, Alabama, then the melon capitol of the South. Prodigious quantities of enormous melons were brought to market in this gnat-infested crossroads of South Alabama known by some as Hell’s Waiting Room. Weeds wilted, asphalt melted and people swooned in a dull stupor in the stifling heat. I was there, involuntarily.

My cousin, Sonny, and I had been conscripted (enslaved) by my uncle for 2 weeks of forced hard labor at the railroad depot in Foley. We were 13 years old. It was Grandma Mimi’s fault---she sold us down the river, claiming we were unmanageable. So Uncle packed us up and we left the beach house. “You boys need some education in discipline, so you’re going to get acquainted with watermelons.” His smirk morphed into a wicked grin.

I’d always loved watermelons, but the job in Foley dulled my lust for ‘em. Folklore has it that watermelons removed freckles, moles, and leprosy, should anyone have these conditions. I wasn’t acquainted with leprosy, but zits and freckles I had in abundance. Maybe? So, I ate a lot of watermelons.

We knew it was gonna be bad when we rolled into Foley. Uncle was a produce broker, and he was cheap. He put us up in a cheesy roadside lodge. AC? Forget it. One window, no fan. He lounged in comfort in the Holiday Inn next door. After work we’d hang out of the window, trying to breathe, or by the pool. It had dingy green water and algae growing on the bottom. The sign read, No Swimming, Contaminated Water, but like other rules, we ignored the warning…13 year olds are impervious to all things nuclear!

Do you know the education you can get at such a motel? Plenty. It was a strange place. Men and women came and went at all hours…we seemed to be the only kids. We wondered why. One evening we found out. We were probably voyeurs, but at 13 we were unfamiliar with the concept. At least the experience made the window and pool more tolerable. We couldn’t wait to get back to our posts every night for more “education.”

Our job was to unload flat-bed trucks of watermelons into broiling hot boxcars from dawn to dusk. Temperatures hovered around 800 degrees F. The Cannonball melons weighed at least 300 pounds, or so it seemed, and we were slow in the loading process. Farmers complained. So Uncle recruited two hobos for the chain gang, paying them with half pints of 4 Roses. They worked like demons. After a couple of sips so did we…13 year olds can’t be trusted!

But we screwed up. It was bound to happen. Each melon was supposed to have a yellow “Certified” sticker on it. But the process was laboriously slow. A hobo said, “Boys, lookie here, they’s a short cut.” Music to our ears. So, we pasted only the top rung of melons with “Certified” stickers. Who’d know, we reasoned...13 year old logic is flawed! The irate Yankees in Chicago began calling. Uncle’s scam had been detected. He got hot about it! It cost him plenty, too, promising folks “certified” melons for just plain ole field melons. And we never found out what deal he’d made with the Sheriff.

So our job changed, but we had another week of incarceration. He put us in the potato packing plant. It was a nasty place, full of flies, vermin and rotting spuds. We packed potatoes and sold culls to the few unsuspecting passer-bys. We soon got bored with this job. We amused ourselves by catching the fat flies in mid-air and stuffing them in coke bottles…13 year olds are most creative when bored, which is often.

One day Uncle came by before dawn, looking grim. Maybe his past had caught up with him, or his patience with us had run out. We never knew. He put us on a Trailways bus back to Port St. Joe, FL and to Grandma Mimi. We hated to leave our motel, and looked longingly as the bus passed it.

Grandma was happy to see us and we promised to be good boys and not to give her heartburn. But what good are the promises of 13 year olds? We returned to our old ways soon, but never forgot our experiences in Foley. Yes, we missed our motel window and the grimy pool, but we were thankful for the education.

I alone survive to tell this tale, so it’s without rebuttal. I never forgot Foley, but hope never to have to repeat the experience. Foley is for passing through and passing on!

Watermelons remain the fruit of angels, “Certified” or not! Uncle, RIP.

Bud Hearn
June 10, 2010