“Now what， Grandad？”
“Now comes the hard part，” he said. “You wait.” And for a whole afternoon， I did. At the dinner table， I asked Grandad how long it would take.
“Maybe next month，” he said， laughing. “Maybe sooner.”
The next morning I lay lazily in bed， reading a comic book. Suddenly， I remembered： the seeds！ Dressing quickly， I ran outside.
What’s that？ I wondered， peering under the oak. Then I realized—it’s a watermelon！ A huge， perfectly shaped fruit lay nesting in the cool mud. I felt triumphant. Wow！ I’m a farmer！ It was the biggest melon I’d ever seen， and I’d grown it.
Just as I realized I hadn’t， Grandad came out of the house. “You picked a great spot， Conrad，”he chuckled.
“Oh， Grandad！” I said. Then we quickly 8）conspired to play the joke on others. After breakfast we loaded the melon into Grandad’s trunk and took it to town， where he showed his 9）cronies the “midnight miracle” his grandson had grown—and they let me believe they believed it.
Later that month Vicky and I got into the back seat of the station wagon for the glum ride back east. Grandad passed a book through the window. “For school，” he said seriously. Hours later， I opened it to where he’d written“watermelons”—and laughed at another of Grandad’s jokes.
Holding the book Grandad had given me that day long ago， Claire listened quietly to the story. Then she asked， “Daddy， can I plant seeds too？” Nancy looked at me； together we surveyed the mountain of boxes waiting to be unpacked. About to say， “We’ll do it tomorrow，” I realized I had never heard Grandad say that. We took off for the market. At a small shop with a metal rack filled with seed packs， Claire picked one that promised bright red flowers， and I added a sack of potting soil.
On the walk home， I thought about those seeds I’d planted. For the first time I realized that Grandad could have met my childish enthusiasm with a 10）litany of disappointing facts： that watermelons don’t grow well in Nebraska； that it was too late to plant them anyway； that it was pointless to try growing them in the deep shade. But instead of boring me with the how of growing things， he made sure I first experienced the “wow.”
Claire charged up the three flights of stairs to our apartment， and in a few minutes she was standing on a chair at the kitchen sink， filling a white porcelain pot with soil. As I sprinkled seeds into her open palm， I felt for the first time the pains Grandad had taken. He had stolen back into town that August afternoon and bought the biggest melon in the market. That night， after I was asleep， he had awkwardly unloaded it and， with a painful bend， placed it exactly above my seeds.
“Done， Daddy，” Claire broke into my reverie. “Now grow！” she commanded.
A few days later， shouts of “They’re growing！” woke us， and Claire led us to the kitchen to see a pot of small green shoots，“Mommy，” she said proudly， “I’m a farmer！”