If ever there was a plant to “take a notion,” as the old folks in my family used to say, it’s a watermelon. In exploring this issue, allow me to present two modest case studies:

Exhibit A: During my most recent teaching gig, a third grader came back to class after lunch with a single watermelon seed wrapped in a paper napkin.

“Miss Evelyn,” she said, “can I plant this?”

Now mind you, I was certain that this watermelon seed would not grow. After all, it had probably been irradiated, or whatever, at some point between the vine and the plane that brought it out to our little village.

But I wanted to encourage young Charlotte! After all, we had been working hard to establish an indoor garden in our classroom, experimenting with grow lights and fertilizer and proximity to such things as windows and heaters. And we were winning. We had already been snacking on lettuce, spinach, and carrots, and the tomatoes were coming along nicely.

So, certainly, Charlotte could plant a watermelon. She labeled the tray and promised to water it every day. She did her plant care duties religiously, and wouldn’t you know it, that thing grew. By the time school got out, it had arms going in all directions, complete with yellow flowers and teeny-tiny baby watermelons that so far had not developed. We more or less gently pulled that plant out of its self-made fortress, draped its many tendrils around Charlotte’s neck, took a bunch of pictures, and sent her off to take it to her grandmother’s greenhouse. Plant, yes. Fruit, maybe. Remind me to ask them how it is doing.

Exhibit B: Now let’s check on my poor sister Mary, who has been trying for years to raise watermelons in her Virginia backyard. One of the stumbling blocks has been a boundary-disrespecting groundhog (something Charlotte and I certainly didn’t have to worry about). Mary has tried many measures to keep the plants safe from the scrabbling paws and the ever-growing yellow teeth, but there is only so much one can do when the watermelons don’t listen.

Over our past few conversations, Mary has confidently described what she believed to be the final solution: a sturdy wire cage with a top and long spikes for driving it securely into the ground. Once she set up this cage, she proceeded to plant her new watermelon crop inside said cage.

And what does that fool plant decide to do? It puts up long tendrils, growing through the roof of the cage, and without fail, puts out new flowers only on the outside of the protective wire. Mary told me that she has tried bending the new tendrils back down so that they are once more inside the perimeter, but the watermelon just shrugs and turns them right back around. Mary has to sleep sometime, and I can just hear that old groundhog licking his chops.

So what will it be? Abundant, joyful growth against the odds, or throwing oneself to the wolves for no apparent reason whatsoever? It’s tough to predict, isn’t it? When asked to comment on the fickle nature and erratic behavior of watermelon-kind, Mary thoughtfully replied, “they are real ninnies.”