(Taste) Buds of Memory
Vernors meant you were home sick. Faygo (Red Pop or Rock n’ Rye) meant you were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Towne Club bottles clinking in their wooden crate meant an important celebration was happening. Small cartons of milk meant you were at school. Ovaltine meant Mom didn’t have time to make breakfast. Little Hugs – those frosted plastic barrels with the foil top and not-from-nature colors – meant your little league team had a double header. Orange drink meant you’d scored a McDonald’s happy meal. Kool-Aid in the fridge meant the summer budget was looking decent and Mom was feeling okay. Stabbing a straw into a pouch of Capri-Sun meant you were at a richer person’s house. Hawaiian Punch meant 7-Up was also in play and the punch bowl would soon be excavated from the basement. A small glass bottle of Coke meant that you were at Uncle John’s house (and could count on endless resupply). A can of Crush meant you had enough coin to walk to the corner Stop & Go. A glass of Squirt from the behind-the-bar push button dispenser meant that you were at the Polish Falcons hall for a wedding. Hose water – the only water we drank as kids, or so it would appear – meant you were on your bike somewhere in the neighborhood on a summer “be home by dark” evening. Nostalgia, ounce by ounce.
Valerie Frydrych Pearcy is a writer on the fresh coast of west Michigan. Recently replaced by AI robots in her corporate job, she has redirected her creative energies toward an essay collection about her GenX girlhood.
The Marbled Sigh 