From: Stan Browning We should have been horse-whipped for the way we aggravated that old man, but development of the part of the brain of mid-teen boys that allows them to think logically in the presence of their peers is often stuck on “pause.” Mr. Hager would have given us all the watermelons we could eat if we would have but asked him. However, now that he had wounded one of our own, ripping off a few samples from his crop became a challenge that could not go unanswered. A group of us were hanging out at the old swinging bridge, “dropping knives” and taking turns jumping off the bridge into the sand on the edge of the river ten or so feet below, when it was suggested that we should show Mr. Hager that we weren’t afraid of him and his cannon. We then began to conspire to seek revenge. The plan was to wait until dark to make our move. One other fellow and I were to go up Route 10 and distract Mr. Hager by buying a watermelon from him at his sales stand, while a group of boys was to come into the watermelon patch from Laural Fork River, which ran beside the field a hundred yards, more or less, on the opposite side from the road. The intruders would gather melons and roll them down a steep embankment onto the riverbank below. They would continue to do this until they received a signal from the road that the sale was complete and Mr. Hager was now free to return to guard duty. We would reorganize and return later to gather our bounty from the riverbank and go to the bridge to enjoy our haul. We were to whistle the tune, “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” when it was time for the gatherers to vacate the melon patch. Everything went as planned. The other front man and I did everything we could think of to drag out the sale to give the boys in the field as much time as possible. We spent so much time picking over a multitude of perfectly acceptable melons on the pretense of trying to make up our mind that it became obvious that Mr. Hager was growing suspicious. We finally chose one and then asked if he could sell us some salt. He had no salt at the stand, so we suggested that he go into the house where he was staying with Aunt Nancy and Uncle George Milam and perhaps borrow some for us. He took about two minutes to get a bag of salt from the house and then rush off toward his guard post. I started furiously whistling, “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” In all, we harvested thirteen of Mr. Hager’s select and one large green pumpkin. We built a huge bond fire at the old swinging bridge, ate watermelon until we were in danger of serious gastric distress, and then had one humongous watermelon rind fight.