A Brief History

 My youth tasted like Shasta Root Beer. Not because I particularly enjoyed it, but rather because I was anxious to experience the blizzard of foam that was promised in each and every can. The marketing ploy that essentially insisted that we pour their soda in such a way that it would cause more air to mix with it and create a creamy bulge at the top of the mug that should in all cases be wasted by blowing it off the top in the most frivolous manner. It was the exception to my cola fixation that I was helpless to ignore because Madison Avenue suggested it. 

Other than that, we were pretty much a Pepsi household for many years. When there was a celebration, Fourth of July or a family reunion, we were ensconced at our cabin in the mountains. Without electricity, in order to keep the amount of pop available for a crowd of kids, we would haul a case or two down to the creek out the back door and down the hill. There, all those various flavors mixed with the known brands. The Cragmont next to the Shasta next to the Seven Up and the aforementioned Pepsi. 

Then there was our short-lived love affair with the Pop Shoppe. This was essentially the Disneyland of soda, where you could wander the aisles, creating a mixed case of bottles with such exotic (to us) flavors as Cream Soda and Black Cherry. My older brother insisted on getting his selections in the most bizzare tastes as possible, while my younger brother and I were content to fill in the the rest with lemon-lime, their Seven Up equivalent, and Cola, which ot my uneducated palate was indistinguishable from Pepsi. 

Then, at the dawn of the 1970s, Coca Cola began selling their brand in resealable two liter bottles. Initially these were glass, and helped spur the nascent recycling movement. What my brothers and I understood was that while it was possible to recap the contents and save them in the refrigerator, the carbonation would diminish greatly after each pour, so it was in our best interest to have as much of that bottle as we could at one sitting, avoiding the flat brown liquid that would inevitably arrive after that initial taste. 

This was my beginning of a lifelong connection to "The Real Thing." My brothers were still swayed from the one true path, but my palate adjusted to the sugray burn of what would become my go-to. I have fond and somewhat regrettable memories of standing in my parents' front yard, chugging an entire two liters (once they switched to more managable plastic) for the amusement of my friends. And that's how it stayed until, at the end of one particular summer sometime after my prime, I began to collect kidney stones. Once I retired from dark sodas, and at the advice of my doctor, the stones stopped occuring. 

For a while, I searched in vain for a replacement. I drank my share of Sprite and Sierra Mist, but I knew that I was only filling a void. Eventually, soda pop stopped being a thing in my life. But every summer, I can still recall all those bubbles. And the way things used to be.