Friday, September 4, 2009

Thunderbird ’65


One of my jobs while growing up on the farm was to clean up the quarter-mile stretch of roadside adjacent to our vineyard — bottles, cans, papers, pieces of broken boxes and pallets, and various other items too disgusting to describe here. During the daylight hours it was a fairly busy road. But at night, like the smaller roads that crossed it, it was used by many for slow drives with a bottle and friends of the opposite sex. The fact that it was relatively close to town also made it a handy place to ditch the evidence outside city limits, and before the police pulled you over to help alleviate their boredom on a slow summer night. Other than the sheer volume of trash, this meant that the cans and bottles weren’t always empty. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as the smell of a sunbaked, half-full can of Falstaff or Lucky Lager — unless it’s the sour smell of a bottle of Thunderbird, an exquisite wine and old-time favorite of thrifty connoisseurs. I don’t know why, but even though I knew what to expect, I just had to unscrew the lids.


Update:
In the Forum: drama on a deadline.

4 comments:

Joseph Hutchison said...

Somehow the very name Lucky Lager brought back my whole early adolescence, William. And though I didn't grow up on a farm, I recognize this experience. Thanks!

William Michaelian said...

And they stood
at the precipice,
clutching their cans
of Lucky Lager....

vazambam said...

And then.....and then...ALONG CAME JONES, SLOW WALKIN', SLOW TALKIN' JONES!

word verification: beack!

William Michaelian said...

Aw..... why is everybody always pickin’ on me?