Iced Tea

“Awwwww!”

James had just made this guttural noise of frustration while engrossed in his computer, and I turned toward him. “I haven’t heard that sound for 500 years or more.”

“What sound?”

“Like the one you just made.” I repeated his guttural noise. “My grandmother used to make it whenever I offered iced tea to her.”

James knit his brows. “Why?”

“When I was little, there wasn’t any instant tea. Because making it took so much work, we didn’t have it often. It was a summertime treat for us with sugar and lemon, and I wanted to share some with her. So, I offered her a drink.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Awwwww!’” Just like you did.”

“Why didn’t she like it?”

“Years later, she told me her family couldn’t afford milk when she grew up, so everyone had tea. They called it ‘gunpowder’ because it came in tiny balls. After all those years of drinking the brew, she got sick of the flavor and wouldn’t touch it again.”

            “Is that all?”

            “For the most part. It took me a while to remember, but once I did, I made it into a game and suggested a glass, just to hear her say, ‘Awwww.’ She knew what I was doing and played along. I miss her. She’d talk with me and listen to what I said.”

James turned back to his game, but my thoughts remained on my grandmother. Was it just coincidence that caused him to make that sound? Perhaps. Or, could it have been some little part of my grandmother that lay dormant within first my mom and then me, only to resurface two generations later to remind me of her? I decided not to make a fuss about it. Who knows? Maybe Grandma taught him how to do it.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.