THE DAY WATERMELON, POTATO SALAD, AND OLD FLAGS SHOWED UP TOGETHER

By Mark Morgan

Funny thing about Memorial Day around Waldron years ago—it always arrived carryin’ three things.

A watermelon.

A bowl of potato salad.

And an old flag.

Now somebody’s liable to say, “Mark, that don’t make a lick of sense.”

Maybe not.

But that’s exactly how summer always announced itself around here.

Memorial Day didn’t come knockin’.

It just eased in through the screen door like family.

Soon as it rolled around, school was out, kids quit wearin’ shoes unless Momma raised enough fuss to make ’em, and screen doors slammed so much they sounded like somebody keepin’ time with a hammer.

Somebody was always draggin’ them old webbed lawn chairs outta the shed—the ones folded up since the last Fourth of July and held together mostly by rust, hope, and memories.

And somewhere… every single year… a watermelon appeared.

Didn’t matter if it came from the Piggly Wiggly, a roadside stand, or the back of a pickup that looked like it had hauled hay since Eisenhower was in office.

Somebody split that watermelon open and suddenly every kid in Scott County turned into a professional.

Juice runnin’ down elbows.

Faces sticky as flypaper.

And at least one cousin turnin’ Memorial Day into the World Championship Watermelon Seed-Spittin’ Tournament.

You know the one.

He’d lean back, squint one eye shut like a riverboat gambler, and launch a seed halfway to Oklahoma.

Grandma would yell, “Boy, you hit that potato salad and I’ll tan your hide till you can’t sit down till Labor Day!”

And speakin’ of potato salad…

Lord have mercy.

Potato salad wasn’t food.

It was competition.

Every family had that one aunt or grandma guardin’ the recipe tighter than a coon dog guardin’ a ham bone.

Wouldn’t tell nobody what was in it.

Acted like the recipe was locked up in Fort Knox beside the nation’s gold reserves.

People didn’t ask:

“Did you bring potato salad?”

They asked:

“WHO made it?”

Because one bowl would have folks scrapin’ the sides clean…

…and another would hit your plate harder than a sack of wet feed.

By noon, Memorial Day had reached full speed.

The ants had organized an invasion force against the dessert table.

A wasp arrived uninvited.

Somebody forgot ice.

One uncle swore he could still throw a football fifty yards.

And every grown man in Arkansas became official supervisor of the grill without touchin’ a single hot dog.

They’d stand there with arms folded givin’ advice like they was directin’ NASA.

Meanwhile somebody’s old lawn chair finally surrendered and folded up under him.

He landed lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

Claimed he meant to do it.

Nobody believed him.

But Memorial Day was never just watermelon and potato salad.

It was the flags.

The flowers.

The little cemeteries tucked around these hills.

The names.

Because Memorial Day honors the men and women who gave their lives serving this country.

Back then folks around Waldron didn’t make big speeches about patriotism.

They just remembered.

They cleaned graves.

Set flowers.

Straightened little flags.

Stood quiet.

You’d see old men with hats in their hands lookin’ at stones while thinkin’ thoughts they never said out loud.

And in little towns, names stick around longer than tire tracks in a muddy road.

Some of those names went to school with folks.

Worked beside ’em.

Sat in church with ’em.

Then later everybody went home.

More watermelon got cut.

Potato salad got passed around again.

Old stories got told for the hundredth time.

And somehow nobody minded hearin’ ’em again.

Funny thing is, I don’t remember every meal from back then.

I don’t remember every summer.

But I remember sticky watermelon juice on little hands.

Metal lawn chairs squeakin’ under shade trees.

Paper plates bendin’ under baked beans.

Screen doors slammin’.

Old men talkin’ fishin’, weather, and things they’d already talked about fifty summers in a row.

And those little flags movin’ in the breeze.

Memorial Day always felt like the country paused just long enough to remember…

Then gathered close again.

Moral of the story: The watermelon filled our bellies. The stories filled our hearts. And those old flags reminded us why we were free enough to enjoy both.