I spent the Fourth of July weekend with family in Rehoboth. It wasn’t the whole clan, just six adults, four sunny days, delicious meals, and a sandy beach. At one point, one of us—no names will be used here—decided he wanted a watermelon mojito for his evening cocktail. Fortunately, the garden delivered, and so, after a post-beach outdoor shower, it was game on.
Personally, I’m not much of a mojito guy and less of a watermelon mojito guy, but I was intrigued. (Please don’t misunderstand: I have nothing against watermelons. A slice of watermelon with a pinch of salt goes a long way with me on a hot summer day, but mixed in a cocktail…meh.) Anyway, this was the first watermelon I had encountered this summer, and I was glad to see its juicy redness which looked like an old friend that would pair well with a sprig of muddled mint and a shot of rum. Maybe worth a try after all…
Think about watermelons: you’re a kid again and you’e holding a big grin of watermelon. It’s an explosion of color, texture, flavor, and juiciness. Messy, too: you can have a seed-spitting contest while the juice dribbles down your chin, staining your white t-shirt. Who cares? It’s summer and you don’t need a shirt anyway.
These days, watermelons are ubiquitous: they are grown in climes from tropical to temperate and there are literally more than a thousand varieties worldwide. They’re old, too: a few years ago, scientists traced 6,000 year-old watermelon seeds found in the Libyan desert back to an ancestor plant in West Africa. But those first watermelons were tart. It took some savvy Romans to figure out how to breed a sweet, pulpy variety.
Watermelons are technically a large fruit with a hard rind surrounding a modified berry called a pepo. They have a high water content (as much as 91% of a watermelon is water!) and can be stored for eating in dry seasons. They arrived in the New World with the Spanish explorers who settled Florida in the 16th Century. A hundred years later, they had found their way up to New England and down to Central and South America. In the Civil War era, they were often cultivated by free black farmers and became a symbol for the abolition of slavery. Sadly, that symbol of freedom morphed into a racist stereotype during the Jim Crow era. Sigh.
Frida Kahlo’s last painting, completed just days before her death in 1954, depicted varieties of watermelons. (It’s the image that accompanies this Musing.) The painting is a fitting and vibrant conclusion to the artist’s short and tragic life, rich in color contrasts, curves, and angles. It also contains a mournful message from the artist: Kahlo inscribed “Vida la Viva”—“Long Live Life!”— on the central melon wedge at the bottom of the canvas, an ironic commentary on her pain-filled existence due to polio, a terrible bus accident, and multiple surgeries.
But perhaps the message isn’t so mournful after all: maybe the artist is showing us that once our own shell is cut open, it reveals an inner life that is vibrant, fresh, and sweet. Also, the many seeds of the watermelon, like those of the pomegranate in Greek mythology, symbolize fertility and immortality. Once the fruit is gone, the seeds carry the promise of new life forward into eternity.
Like a family.
I like that interpretation.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.