Stealing Watermelons

My ex-partner John and I drilled and operated our first well in 1978. The Kelln, located a few miles north of the tiny Major County, Oklahoma town of Cleo Springs is still producing after thirty years. Thirty years ago we weren’t so sure how it would turn out.

John and I are both geologists (he is also now a lawyer) and knew little at the time about drilling and completing wells. We hired a man that did, a geological engineer named Bill A. Bill had engineered hundreds of wells in the area, mostly for Texas operator T.F. Hodge, and there was little he didn’t know.

Much like today, it was hot and dry when we drilled the Kelln well. The area north of Cleo Springs is largely agricultural and Bill knew the location of a nearby watermelon patch.

“We’ll load up the trunk,” he said. “There’s so many out there that the farmers won’t miss a few.”

I was riding shotgun as Bill drove his Chevy field car off the section line road, into the large watermelon patch that stretched as far as we could see. Following a farmer’s trail, he drove into the middle of the patch and parked beneath the sparse shade of a stunted blackjack tree. After watching him pop the trunk lid, I followed him down a row lined with huge watermelons.

Bill was tall and had to really bend to thump each melon to determine its ripeness. We soon chose six prime specimens and loaded them into the Chevy’s deep trunk. So enthralled were we with our search, we never heard two men in a pickup truck pull in behind us.

“What are you boys doing?” a voice behind us said.

Bill and I turned to see two large farmers, both dressed in sweaty overalls. Neither man appeared particularly pleased. I was at a loss for words but not Bill. Reaching for his wallet, he pulled out a twenty and handed it to the older man.

Bill was as tall as the men confronting us but lanky, unlike the two barrel-chested men with huge arms and farmer’s tans. With a big Texas grin on his face Bill never missed a beat.

“We were just coming to look for you two boys,” he said, purposely adopting the local drawl in his speech. “Is twenty enough for these melons we bought?”

The big man nodded and took the twenty without answering or returning Bill’s mile-wide smile. Glancing at me and cocking his head toward the door, he signaled me to get in the car. He slammed the trunk shut and followed me, not bothering to say bye to the two farmers.

They watched us drive away, mopping sweat from their heads with their worn out ball caps and ignoring our dust. Bill didn’t say a word until we were about a mile down the road. That’s when his infectious grin appeared again on his expressive face.

“I’ve been stealing melons from that patch for years. Guess it was about time I got caught.”

By this time he was laughing and I joined him, wondering as I did if stolen watermelons tasted better than ones you purchased. As we continued down the road in a trail of dust I decided that was information I didn’t need to know.

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