Grape Nehi

When I was a child visiting grandparents in southwest Georgia, we were spoiled rotten. Our visits were short and many years apart, because my dad was stationed overseas quite a bit. But we always had a wonderful time with the grands, climbing the backyard pecan tree into the treehouse made just for us. My grandmother rigged a basket with a rope and would keep us content with ripe peaches and Coca Colas, both provisions wet and cold. When the sun got too hot, we’d descend to rummage around in the old wooden shed, filled with treasures like a German made marionette theater and its dusty, tangled marionettes.

Today, I sat on our back deck, the humidity in abeyance for a few hours, reading. Suddenly, I had to have a grape Nehi. My Georgia grandfather would stop at a filling station when he had us kids in the car, and find the big metal cooler that invariably was part of the decor. Fishing out grape Nehis from the icy depths, he’d pop the tops and pass them around. I can still remember the juicy sweetness, the unexpected tang, of that first taste of a new flavor.

I got my Nehi. Sipping it in the shade, I was back in Georgia, a kid again, reading chewed and yellowed Little Colonel books hauled out of that magic shed on another summer afternoon. . .