那天，我們種下希望
人生百味
作者：by Conrad Kiechel
We had just moved to France， and my wife Nancy and I were unpacking on a quiet August afternoon， busy making the rental apartment into a home for our uprooted family. At our feet our three-year-old， Claire， sat 1）leafing through books.
“Please read this，” she said， thrusting a thin blue book in my direction. It’s Fun to Speak French was 2）stenciled on the spine of the faded cover. My grandfather had given me the book when I was a child.
Claire pointed to a page with line drawings below the bars of an old French children’s song：“Do you know how to plant cabbages？” In blue ink， someone had crossed out cabbages and written “Watermelons！”
“Daddy！ Did you do that？” Claire asked， looking up with an expression of shock. We had only recently convinced her not to write in books， and suddenly here was proof that her parents weren’t practicing what they preached. I told her my grandfather had written in the book.
“Daddy！” Now she was confused. “Why did your grandfather do that？” As I sat down to tell the story， my thoughts traveled a well-worn road back to 3）Nebraska.
As a young man， Grandad had been a 4）comer： a farmer， teacher， stockman and， at age 26， a Nebraska state senator. The 5）trajectory of his life was straight up—until a massive stroke felled him at age 44 and crippled him for life. However， his scrape with death had convinced him not how awful life is， but how precious. His zest for living made him a playmate my sister Vicky and I fought over.
Each morning we pressed into Grandad’s car for the drive to the post office， entertained along the way by the incessant 6）patter of his nonsensical rhymes：“Hello， Mrs. Brown. Why are you going to town？”
“I’m going to be a farmer too，” I announced proudly one afternoon as Grandad sat playing 7）solitaire at his desk.
Laying card upon card， he asked， “What are you going to grow？”
Suddenly I thought of a favorite pastime—spitting watermelon seeds as far as possible. “How about watermelons？” I asked.
“Hmm， there’s a crop I haven’t tried！”Brown eyes sparkling， he put his cards aside. “Better get your seeds in the ground quick though.”
It was mid-August， and the days were growing shorter. Soon we would pack up for the drive back to Virginia—and school. I shuddered， feeling the first chill of autumn separation.
“Let’s do it now！” I said， leaping out of my seat. “What do we do？” First， Grandad said， we needed seeds. Remembering the slice of watermelon I’d seen in Aunt Mary’s refrigerator， I raced out the door and across the yard to her house. In a flash I was back， five black seeds in my hand. Grandad suggested a sunny spot in back of the house to plant the seeds. But I wanted a place where I could easily watch my plants’ progress skyward.
We walked outside into the shade of a huge oak. “Right here， Grandad，”I said. I could sit with my back against the tree， reading comic books as the watermelons grew. It was perfect.
“Go to the garage and get the hoe，” was Grandad’s only reaction. Then he showed me how to prepare the ground and plant the seeds in a semicircle. “Don’t crowd them，”he said quietly. “Give them plenty of room to grow.”