“Son, you roll one more melon down that board and I’m gonna to shoot you.”
The bare-bones warning, delivered over a midnight hum of katydids and crickets, froze young Terry Nunn in mid theft, silhouetted against the glow of a fat Georgia moon. Staring at the double-barrel bores of a shotgun nestled capably in the arms of an old farmer, Nunn, 16, felt his mouth go to cotton.
Still as a statue behind a truck bed half-loaded with giant watermelons, Nunn had been minutes from a flawless, five-fingered heist. Instead, he was cold-busted and on the verge of frontier justice, alongside two confederates. Beyond surrender, the teen had one option: Run like hell.
With the turn of a heel in red dirt, Nunn bolted like a blind man escaping flames, and scrambled into the melon field, leaving behind a hail of blasts, buckshot, burning rubber, and buck-wild bedlam. The scheme descended into epic pandemonium.
“I’m sure not proud of what we did, but I still scratch my head at how crazy it was,” Nunn recalls. “No doubt, the whole deal still sticks close to my heart.”
Welcome to the night the lights almost went out in Georgia.
Black Diamonds
Pocked with a roadmap of dents and scratches, testament to horse hauling and cow wrangling, a 1969 F-100 bounced the backroads of Jackson County, roughly 60 miles northeast of Atlanta, on a sticky August morning with mercury bound for 100 degrees.
Windows rolled down in the green, two-tone truck, the price of a breeze was worth the taste of dust to three teenage boys sweltering in the cab, as Nunn rode passenger window, with his good buddy, Gene, behind the wheel, and lifetime friend, Rocky, wedged in the middle.
Elbow cocked over belt molding, Nunn watched the blur of pastures and woods. It was 1977 in rural Georgia: Young men riding the backroads could easily stray.
“It was almost natural for three teenagers to drift toward trouble in summertime,” explains Nunn, in a voice soaked in Southern honey. “It’s easy to stir up a mess out in the country, especially if you’re bored and ain’t got any money.”
Recounting the past comes natural to the 64-year-old—a master storyteller who paints in color, hangs on detail, and delivers tales on a loop with remarkable recall. Raised hardscrabble, Nunn never lacked for necessity, but he could see poverty from the bottom rung of working class. By 12, he worked full-time; by 14, he drove a tractor-trailer. By 16, “Big T” Nunn was stacked at 6’1”, 220 lb., and could blaze down the gridiron.
And on an otherwise ordinary dog day in 1977, Nunn’s young life almost doglegged as the Ford crossed north into Banks County. Beyond endless stretches of grain fields, the pickup slowed and eased to the shoulder, alongside a 50-acre patch dotted with massive chunks of oblong fruit.
Black Diamond watermelons. Deep, dark green in color, each easily exceeding 50 lb., the picture-book specimens were prime for picking.
Gene swept his finger across the field of dragon eggs, and turned to Rocky and Nunn: Y’all wanna make some money?
Lock, Stock, and Barrel
The plan was straightforward: Return to the field in the witching hour, fill the bed with booty, and sell the haul roadside on the edge of Atlanta the following day. Easy money, honey.
However, the property in the trio’s crosshairs was not easy pickings. By no means.
Months earlier, Nunn had snuck onto the same farm and rustled catfish a stone’s throw from the watermelon patch. He was caught red-handed by the shotgun-toting farmer-owner.
Apparently, the old man never slept.
“He nabbed me and another buddy holding a full 6’-string of fish that didn’t have room to slide another 2-pound channel cat on,” Nunn recollects. “He carried us back to his house and made us clean the fish right in front of him. We put them in gallon jugs, filled the jugs with water, stuck it all in the freezer, and then cleaned up everything. I thought he would call the law, but then he let us go.”
Only a few short months after the catfish fiasco, Nunn again was ready to roll the dice. Brimming with confidence, Nunn, Gene, and Rocky drove to a barn owned by Gene’s papaw, and prepared to execute. They padded the truck bed with a thick layer of hay and grabbed a scrap piece of plywood cut lengthways in half to deploy as a loading ramp.
At approximately 11:30 p.m., with temps still clinging tight to the low 80s, the teens rumbled back to Banks County. Gene drove just past the field entrance, turned off his headlights, cut the wheel, and backed down to an 8’ embankment below the melon field. Nunn and Rocky spilled out of the cab’s right side and moved toward the field, decked in standard summer fare: t-shirts, close-cropped jean shorts, and work boots. Gene, strapped in blue jeans and cowboy boots, crawled into the bed, and extended the plywood ramp to the embankment.
Nunn and Rocky would cut vines, pick, haul the produce from field to truck, and roll melons down the ramp to Gene for stacking and packing. Lock, stock, and barrel.
Under a moon that wasn’t quite full, but plenty fat, the boys walked into the rows. “Our eyes got adjusted pretty fast. It didn’t take long and we could see exactly where we were going and what we were doing,” Nunn remembers. “Big ole melons laying everywhere.”
“Only problem was, the old man’s house was just a mile from that field.”
Every Man for Himself
Nunn and Rocky knelt and began harvesting. A flick of a Barlow knife, an upward hoist, and the deed was done. Operating in total silence and total darkness, with no risk of flashlight exposure, they carried the hefty melons to the descending ramp for release to Gene.
“You snipped the vine and toted off the melon, keeping the knife between your fingers,” Nunn describes. “We wasn’t playing around. I mean, these were Black Diamonds and we were both good-sized boys, so we toted them in pairs. We’d put’em on the ramp, one at a time, and roll’em down. Gene was stacking them in the bed.”
“I’m not sure how much time passed, but we were hard at it and covered an area about a quarter of a football field. By this time, maybe we had 40 or so melons loaded in the bed. It was getting about time to call it a night, but that ain’t what happened. We went back in for a few melons more.”
Cradling two more Black Diamonds under his arms, Nunn marched to the embankment and rolled the first down the plywood plank. He bent over, grabbed the second, and stopped cold. A voice with Old Testament wrath cut the night air.
Son, you roll one more melon down that board and I’m going to shoot you. If you don’t believe me, you just go ahead and roll another one.
Roughly 40’ to Nunn’s left stood the old man, wearing overalls and a crumpled ball hat that looked to have been run over by a tractor several times. Time stopped.
“He had a double-barrel shotgun in the crook of his arm and it looked like it was a part of him. You know how old men lay it in the bend of their arm and it looks natural? It looked like he’d been carrying his gun in that position his whole life,” Nunn exclaims.
“I didn’t have no idea where he’d come from or how he knew we were there. I ain’t got a clue. All I knew was he meant every word about shooting me. Evidently, somebody had been in that melon field before and he was keeping an eye on it because there was no reason for him to come down there at all.”
“The only thing in my favor was that in the dark, the old man didn’t recognize me as being the kid who stole his catfish. That might have saved me from getting shot on the spot.”
Still as a stone, casting his eyes toward the field, Nunn caught a snapshot of Rocky, a sprinter on the high school track team, motoring toward liberty 40 yards into the field, fading into black. He gone.
Shifting his gaze back to the old man, Nunn mustered up a reply: “Yessir. I’m not going to roll another watermelon, and I’m sorry that I did.”
The gun remained level: “We fixin’ to call the law.”
Despite getting the drop on Nunn, the old man made one miscalculation. He assumed Nunn was the driver, i.e., he didn’t realize Gene was squatting in the bed.
“All of a sudden, Gene slipped or shifted in the truck, and the sound kinda startled the old man. He turned to the noise, and when he did, I took my chance.”
Sincerely. Every man for himself.
Melons at Midnight
Bat outta hell, Big T Nunn burst into the field, work boots cutting Georgia dirt. Behind him, complete chaos and 12-gauge thunder.
“I stretched out, hit full speed, and about right then I heard shots. At the same time, I heard Gene crank the truck and spin off with melons flying everywhere. I clearly heard the plywood hit the tailgate. And I’m running as fast as my legs will go.”
Pellets exploded all around Nunn. “The old man was reloading and firing steady. Birdshot popped all around, some of them hitting my arms and legs and head, and it stung. I don’t know if he was trying to kill me or just shooting overtop to scare me, but it worked either way. He shot about eight times or so.”
With no plan beyond immediate escape, Nunn kept running, aiming for a tree line on the far side of the field. But suddenly—thump, crash, and somersault. Nunn forgot he was running in a field full of melons at midnight.
“My right foot planted dead center of one and went right in, and down I went. Got up, ran a few yards, and hit another. It was like that the whole way across the field, but finally I dove into the tree line and found cover.”
“Out of breath, alone in the dark, I was wishing I’d never have done something this crazy. But most of all, I was scared to death, looking back out at the field. I knew the old man was coming.”
Bury the Body
Splattered in watermelon flesh, streaked in dirt, and skinned on elbows and knees, Nunn appeared to have wrestled a bear and lost.
Crouching in tree cover, unsure of what to do next, he was startled by the sound of leaves rustling to his rear. Rocky looked equally worse for wear.
“Terry, what do you think Gene is doing?”
“I know exactly what he’s doing,” Nunn replied. “He’s headed down the road wide open, and melons are tumbling all outta that bed. I promise you, if that old man thinks about it, he’ll be able to track Gene just by following the watermelons.”
Nunn and Rocky, unsure of how to get back to Jackson County, began moving down the tree line, stopping where the timber brushed the road. “We waited in the shadows, hoping maybe, just maybe, Gene would come back for us.”
An eternity later, Nunn saw headlights approaching. However, the lights didn’t belong to a 1969 F-100. “I knew who it was,” Nunn details. “Gene had gone home and switched out vehicles to his papaw’s truck. I hollered out and Gene slowed down, and we hopped in the bed while he was still moving.”
Forty miles south, the trio pulled up beside the barn, where Gene’s papaw was waiting: I know y’all have been up to no good. Don’t know what y’all been doing. Don’t want to know. Don’t tell me about it. Don’t wake me up no more. Put my truck back in the barn, and y’all behave.
Translated: Papaw knew how to bury a body.
Never Going Back
A heist turned debacle, the watermelon job mercifully ended with a whimper, rather than a bang. The take? Seven watermelons, all gashed and bruised, remained in the F-100’s bed.
“We gave them away to family,” Nunn says. “Looking back, we were just kids in a rural county looking for a little bit of fun that stopped short of trouble.”
“The watermelon raid didn’t cure us from trouble, but it sure fixed us from bothering that old man,” Nunn concludes. “I didn’t ever wanna see him or his shotgun again. I reckon that’s why we never went back.”
(Almost 50 years later, Nunn is a walking library of a thousand stories, all pulled from rural life, agriculture, hunting, fishing, and all points in between. To hear Nunn’s tales and superb delivery, visit his TikTok channel: @terrynunn74.)
For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:
Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told
How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer
Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust
Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing
