The Real Thing

There is nothing on this earth better than a cold 16 oz. Coke in a glass bottle. OK, that is an exaggeration but it does taste pretty darn good that way.  Everything about it is good.  The little pieces of ice that form on the surface of the liquid. The sound of the bottle opener as it frees the carbon gas. That first drink that sends fizz up your nose and gives you the hiccups. This is the stuff of my childhood.

At family reunions a huge galvanized tub sat in the shade packed with ice and beneath that ice were frosty bottles of Coke, 7-Up and Orange Crush.  An opener was tied to the tub’s handle but was seldom used. It was much preferred to just yank the bottle across the edge of the tub, dislodging the cap from the bottle. At least that’s what the cool kids did.  It was an art, believe me. You nearly froze your fingers off fishing for that bottle and afterwards you  found your mother and placed your frozen hand on the back of her neck.  Well, some kids might have.  By the end of the afternoon we were so full of Coke we could have floated home - the caps jingling in our pockets the whole way.

At my Grandmother’s house there was always a supply of 16 oz. bottles stored in the door of her refrigerator.  There was an open invitation to have one. No permission needed.  I remember many late Friday nights spent on her living room couch.  She sat at one end painting her fingernails and I sat at the other with a bottle of Coke. We watched Johnny Carson. We talked about the “old days” and sometimes we even talked about boys. 

Saturday was grocery day at our house. It was my job (along with my sister) to gather the empty bottles to return to the store. We each had our own 8-pack of bottles to return for 10 cents each.  My sister usually saved her money but I spent mine immediately.  Five feet from the customer service desk was a display of the weeks top ten 45 rpm records.  That 80 cents never had the chance to warm in my hand. As long as I had my bottle deposit money, I never left the store without a song.

These days, I drink my Coke from a cup.  A 16 oz. glass bottle is just a memory. A wonderful memory from a wonderful childhood. It’s the real thing.

The Kitchen Table

The best kind of kitchen table is an old one. Preferably round and made of solid wood. One that can be made to accommodate a large crowd when needed by adding a board or two. One that creaks when you lean on it.  One that needs refinishing.  

 Things of great importance happen at the kitchen table.  At get togethers in my fathers family the men ate first, the children second and the women ate last. It would be easy to have a feminist fit over this arrangement but I have come to realize that it was their preference.  The women chose to eat last so they could linger at the table.  Sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea in hand and a full stomach lends itself to some wonderful things.  It is easier and more comfortable to speak, share, confess, question, laugh, cry, pray and love at this sacred place.  

Growing up our kitchen table was filled every night with my mothers wonderful food and the chairs filled with all four members of our family (and quite often an extra or two).  It was necessary to gather at the end of the day, hold hands, give thanks and share a meal together. There was no reading at the table, no arguing at the table and much to my dismay no singing at the table. It was a time for talking, connecting and most often a place of great laughter.

In the early morning our table was the place where my parents came together and talked about plans for the day. I seldom ate breakfast without my father's open bible on the table across from me. Although I was never privy to these meetings, I know they always included prayer.

During the day and often late at night our table was the place where my father wrote sermons, journaled his thoughts and prayers, or graded papers.  When my mother was a child, she did her homework on that very same table when it lived at her grandparents house.

When the table came to live with me, its corners were chewed on by my boys as they were teething.  Spelling words were learned and forts were built beneath its shelter.  Hands were held and prayers were said. When we moved to a different house, the table was sent to the basement where it was used to feed teenagers and hold the Thanksgiving overflow of family and friends. It is now a holder of pizza boxes, jackets, guitars, picks and notebooks filled with song lyrics.  All in all, not a bad life.  I am hoping that it will live with my grandchildren some day and their teeth marks will be added to the edges and their laughter and prayers will be soaked into its grain.