Grandpa and I survey the freshly weeded garden as sudden splashes of rain smack our bare arms. “Bo, grab that basket of rhubarb and dash them into the kitchen. I’ll finish up out here.” He scoops the garden tools from the ground and tosses them into the wheelbarrow as I run across the backyard, balancing the garden’s bounty in my arms.
I traipse through the kitchen door, carrying the soil-streaked rhubarb. Grandma looks up from the rocker where she’s smocking a church dress for me. Just one glance at my mess and she lets out a whoop.
“Bo! Don’t track that mud into my kitchen. What’s got into you? I scrubbed that floor not an hour ago. You march right outside and clean that ‘barb at the spigot.”
I look out the screen door as the raindrops grow larger and heavier, hiding the sidewalk’s rainy polka dots with a sudden deluge. “But Grandma, it’s raining and I’ll get wet.”
“Bo, do what I say! You’re already wet, and soon to be wetter. Rinse off that rhubarb. Then go up and take a quick bath. Your pa will be home from work soon and he don’t want to see you covered with mud.”
I know that isn’t exactly true. Pa never cares if I’m covered with mud. After all, he pumps gas and checks oil all day Saturday. He gets filthy when he works, all covered with grease and oil, and he doesn’t mind. Grandma’s the one who cares ’cause she’s been cleanin’ the house since breakfast and so I do as I am told. Grandma calls after me. “Remember, only a couple inches of hot water. The water bill was sky high last month.”
“Yes ‘m,” I mumble. How can I clean away this pasty garden mud with that speck of water? I turn on the faucet to get the hot water running and fill the tub with enough water to barely cover my feet. I turn on my transistor, setting the dial to ‘The Hundred Top Pops’ on AM 690. As the tunes fill the bathroom, I climb into the water, and splash back and forth against the cold porcelain tub. Once I’m mostly clean, I dry off and spread my towel on the bathroom floor. I can stretch out on top of it. The bathroom is one of the few places in the apartment I can laze around without an adult interrupting me. Every once in awhile, I swish the bath water, making it sound like I’m scrubbin’ my skin off. I never know when Grandma might stand outside the door, listening to me. (She’s sneaky, but so am I.)
The music from my transistor makes me happy. Bobby Vinton croons ‘Blue Velvet’ across the airwaves and I sing along with the tear-jerky love ballad. Suddenly a surge of commercials comes whizzing through the air and makes me sit up and take note. Hillbilly music springs from the transistor with a foot-stompin’ “Ya-hoo! Drink Mountain Dew. It’ll tickle yer innards.” I listen to the commercial’s ditty. I’ve never heard of Mountain Dew. Somethin’ brand new, I suppose.
“Bo, aren’t you out of that bath yet? Clean that tub and get ready for dinner,” Grandma calls from downstairs. “One of your favorites. Ham and beans.”
Ham and beans? One of my favorites? Who is she kidding? Nonetheless, I make myself presentable and approach the kitchen table, doing a little tap dance. Grandma looks me up and down.
“Bo, stop dancing in the apartment and pour yourself a glass of milk.” She’s always telling me to stop jiggling around, but Pa claims I got my natural dancing feet from him. “Leave her go a bit, Pearl,” my pa always says to Grandma. “Let her be happy for awhile. She’s just a child, you know.”
I sit at the table, and after Grandpa blesses the food, I start in with my questions. “Grandpa, what is Mountain Dew?”
Grandpa gives me an odd look, a kind of squint-y look, and stares hard at Grandma. “It’s a drink, Bo. Now eat.”
“But Grandpa, the hillbillies say it’ll tickle my innards. What does that mean? My transistor played a commercial for it. Can I buy a bottle and give it a try?”
Grandpa and Grandma frown into their ham and beans. “You say the transistor has a commercial for Mountain Dew?” Grandpa asks, enunciating each word slowly. He struggles to make sense of this conversation. Then aside to Grandma, he whispers. “Moonshine? She talkin’ ’bout moonshine?” Grandma shakes her head in bafflement and puts her finger to her mouth. “Shush, Smulling. She’ll hear.”
And I do. I hear every word, ’cause Grandpa’s part deaf and speaks loudly. I can hear his whispers a yard away. “Is Mountain Dew moonshine, Grandpa? What’s moonshine?”
“Bo, tell me the truth on a stack of Bibles. You say there’s a commercial on the transistor for moonshine?”
“Guess so. It said to drink Mountain Dew.”
“Eat your food, Bo. We’ll talk about this when your Pa gets home.”
I eat my ham, then shovel my beans into my napkin when no one is paying attention. I offer to clean up the table for Grandma so I can throw my beans away. I don’t want to hurt Grandma’s feelings, but beans are gross and I can’t swallow them.
Finally I hear Pa slam the front door. Grandpa folds his newspaper and peers down the hallway. “That you, Dale? We’re in the kitchen.” Pa lumbers down the hall and leans towards me, plunking a big kiss on my forehead. Then he gives Grandma a peck on her cheek. (Even though she’s his mother-in-law, they like each other a lot.)
“Hey, Smulling. Pearl. How’d your day go?”
Pa works in a filling station on Saturdays to earn extra money. Since Ma took sick, there are lots of doctor bills and Pa says he’s not about to get behind. To keep Grandma’s apartment clean, he showers and changes his clothes at the station, and shoves his work shirt and bibs in a crumply paper bag.
Grandma gives that greasy sack a nasty look. “Dale, give me those clothes and I’ll set the wringer to working.” Grandma heads into the basement while Pa gets his ham and beans from the warming oven. He’s hungry and cleans his plate before I can offer him a napkin for those beans. I wait for him to get some coffee and then I begin my interrogation.
“Pa, what’s Mountain Dew? Is it moonshine? Do you drink moonshine?”
Dad gives Grandpa a quizzical look and Grandpa shrugs his shoulders as he mutters into his newspaper. “The girl gone listened to some trash on the transistor. Now she’s asking lots of questions.”
“Whoa! Everyone slow down a second. You heard about moonshine, Bo? On your radio?”
“I don’t know, Pa. No one will tell me if I did or I didn’t. The hillbilly on the transistor said ‘Drink Mountain Dew. It’ll tickle your innards.’ I want to know what Mountain Dew tastes like.”
Pa sputters into his coffee cup and splashes his clean shirt. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and I see him wipe a silly grin off his face, too. “Smulling, you need to keep on top of these new fangled things,” he teases Grandpa. While Dad chuckles, I get impatient. He knows and he’s not telling me.
“Pa…”
“Sorry, Bo. Mountain Dew’s a new soda pop. I’ve seen the boys drink it at the station, though can’t say I’ve ever tasted the stuff. Looks green. Seems popular enough.”
Grandpa still frowns behind his paper. “What’s with the hillbillies, then? I thought Bo was asking about moonshine.”
“Smulling, I do believe moonshine and hillbillies were a part of your generation, not Bo’s. My girl wants some green soda water and it doesn’t take hillbillies to brew that. It’s just a foolish commercial she’s listened to.”
Grandpa won’t give up. “Well, if it’s for green soda water, can’t be good for her. She should drink milk, just like I did when I was her age.”
I can tell Dad thinks this is funny, but he keeps a straight face.
“No moonshine, Smulling?” Grandpa turns red, but refuses to answer.
Grandma is upstairs by now, huffing from climbing the stairs. “I’ve heard enough about moonshine. You all, hush.” Grandma sits down heavy in her chair. “Dale, those clothes are filthy. I’ve got them soaking in lye.”
“Pearl, I could do that washing. Draggin’ my clothes down those steps isn’t good for you.” Pa doesn’t like to be beholdin’ to my grandparents, but for now he hasn’t much choice.
“Ha! A man launderin’ his own clothes! Anyways, you got enough to do working two jobs and keeping your eye on Bo.”
“Say, thanks for watching her, Pearl, and thanks for dinner, too. Good enough to eat.”
“Pa! You call that good food? You and me, we hate beans.”
“Shush, Bo. You talk way too much. The rain’s let up. Go comb your hair and we’ll go for a drive. I’ve got an errand to run.”
I’m always willing to ride in the car. It’s only a couple years old, and it’s a pink and white Sportman DeSoto, and it’s got long chrome fins in the back. It’s absolutely the most beautiful car in the whole world, and Pa and Grandpa agree with me. I grab my transistor and hop into in the front seat.
“Where we going, Pa? Someplace fun? Can we maybe go to the junk yard?” I love visiting the junk yard with Pa.
“No junk yard today, Bo. Have to go back to the station. I plumb forgot something.” Pa drives down State Street and pulls the DeSoto to the side lot of ‘Ned’s Gas’. Pa and Ned are real good friends. Ned gave Pa a job when he needed extra money. “I need a word with Ned,” says Pa. “Hey Bo, I got a spare nickel in my pocket. You go check out the soda cooler.”
Soda? I never get soda. Most of my relatives say it’s bad for me, although Pa doesn’t ever give me his thought on the matter. The steel cooler full of bottles is chained around a tree, the case standing in the shade to keep the soda cool. I open the lid and check out the choices. Root beer. Cream soda. Orange Crush. Gee whillickers! There’s Mountain Dew in here! Dropping my nickel into the slot, I slide the Mountain Dew bottle out from its rack. I take a little sip. It’s spritzy and bubbly and, gosh, it does tickle my innards. I start giggling and can’t stop.
“Who’s pulling your funny bone?” Pa laughs as he sees me. Pa’s business is finished. He crouches on a grassy patch near the cooler, pulls a long blade from the ground, and whistles through it. “What’d you get to drink, Bo? Anything good?”
“Pa, it’s Mountain Dew. Look. It really is green and it tickles, too.”
Pa takes the bottle and looks it over. Sniffs the top. “Guess I’ll take a pull. See what all this ruckus is about. Maybe those hillbillies are on to something!”
He takes a gulp, then I take one. We take turns, finishing the soda pop faster than a panting dog slurps cold water. “Hey, Pa, it really does tickle my innards.” We find this immensely funny and laugh so hard we have to hold our bellies to stop.
“Bo, I think you’re right. It tickles my innards, too. Now we best get you back to the apartment. I need to visit your mom tonight. And don’t make a fuss to your Grandpa ’bout drinking Mountain Dew. I don’t think he rightly approves.”
“You’re right there, Pa. Grandpa would never approve of green soda.”
“I bet Grandpa doesn’t approve of anything that might give his favorite girl’s innards a good tickle. He must think tickling you is his job.” I nod seriously. I can understand Grandpa’s way of thinking.
“I’ll let him tickle my outsides and Mountain Dew can tickle my insides.” I start twirling on my tip-toes. “Pa? Thanks for getting me a Mountain Dew.”
“My pleasure, Bo. All my pleasure. Once in awhile, a gal’s just gotta have fun.” And he takes me by the hand and spins me towards the DeSoto.
I feel like I’m Cinderella, approaching my golden coach, and ready for a night of excitement. I just finished third grade and I’m way too old for fairy tales, but Pa still makes me feel like a princess in a golden coach.
“I love Mountain Dew, and I love you, Pa.”
“Well, what a coincidence, Bo. It happens that I love you, too.”
