7 Aug 2018
Today I had a coke float. Maybe not the best choice on an empty stomach. Or was it? I'm conflicted. One thing I realized is that I probably don't like these as much as I once did. Another thing is that I went through a range of feelings besides a stomachache.
Today I had a coke float. Maybe not the best choice on an empty stomach. Or was it? I'm conflicted. One thing I realized is that I probably don't like these as much as I once did. Another thing is that I went through a range of feelings besides a stomachache.
Taste aside, it made me equal parts really happy and deeply sad. It made me think about childhood summers and grandparents who are no longer with us. The boundless joy and endless possibility of freedom form school, nostalgia for childhood when we were filled with potential as opposed to knowing now that so many of those doors have closed, and the beauty of not having to think about mortality or deal with the reality of people you love not being around forever.
I remember drinking these on occasion with my cousin on my grandparents' back patio in Ohio in the summer when I was maybe eight or nine. It always seemed to be the hottest part of summer, so this time of year makes me crave them even now that I've confirmed that I don't particularly like them anymore. I don't know what the attraction was. Was it the beauty or not having to choose between something to drink and dearly loved ice cream? Was it a dessert my mom didn't serve, but my grandma would? Was it just the relief from playing outside as a kid, losing yourself completely in the way kids do, and then having something cold on your tongue?
I do remember other things, though – watching the birds in the birdbath; the windmill spin out by the neat, house-like shed; the hum of the air conditioner beside us; being right outside the sliding door of the house and watching my grandpa's barber shop customers go in next door, ten feet away; hearing the conversation and laughter of the old guys remembering the old days; the contrast of the cool, covered humidity free concrete porch with the blazing sun on the other side of the railing. And the mugs or cups with which to contain the prized treat – not special by an outsiders standards of beauty by any means, but we had favorites. One was tall and yellow with not the most ergonomic handle with an alligator on the front who was, of course, wearing clothes. Another was a tall, white cup with a red handle with the old Disney characters all around it - goofy and the other dog, Mickey and someone else. Both were from the 70s or before - old and worn, but we loved them. Was there fighting over them amongst my sisters and cousins? Almost certainly, but I can't remember that part.
Would I drink another? Probably.
I don't even know if I'm remembering it correctly. Was it MaMa or PaPa who made it? Exactly what month was it? Was it a treat or consolation prize? Memory is a funny thing. Maybe in all my stories about my childhood, both of my sisters would tell an entirely different tale. The above is just my account. I suppose every memory is like that.
I remember drinking these on occasion with my cousin on my grandparents' back patio in Ohio in the summer when I was maybe eight or nine. It always seemed to be the hottest part of summer, so this time of year makes me crave them even now that I've confirmed that I don't particularly like them anymore. I don't know what the attraction was. Was it the beauty or not having to choose between something to drink and dearly loved ice cream? Was it a dessert my mom didn't serve, but my grandma would? Was it just the relief from playing outside as a kid, losing yourself completely in the way kids do, and then having something cold on your tongue?
I do remember other things, though – watching the birds in the birdbath; the windmill spin out by the neat, house-like shed; the hum of the air conditioner beside us; being right outside the sliding door of the house and watching my grandpa's barber shop customers go in next door, ten feet away; hearing the conversation and laughter of the old guys remembering the old days; the contrast of the cool, covered humidity free concrete porch with the blazing sun on the other side of the railing. And the mugs or cups with which to contain the prized treat – not special by an outsiders standards of beauty by any means, but we had favorites. One was tall and yellow with not the most ergonomic handle with an alligator on the front who was, of course, wearing clothes. Another was a tall, white cup with a red handle with the old Disney characters all around it - goofy and the other dog, Mickey and someone else. Both were from the 70s or before - old and worn, but we loved them. Was there fighting over them amongst my sisters and cousins? Almost certainly, but I can't remember that part.
Would I drink another? Probably.
I don't even know if I'm remembering it correctly. Was it MaMa or PaPa who made it? Exactly what month was it? Was it a treat or consolation prize? Memory is a funny thing. Maybe in all my stories about my childhood, both of my sisters would tell an entirely different tale. The above is just my account. I suppose every memory is like that.
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