They say that life is short. All that is guaranteed are death and taxes but in my life there is a third guarantee, a trusted entity that has been there just about every morning of my life, one I thought I would never see the end of.
So, you can imagine my surprise that the big news these days is the end of an era known as the frozen juice years. Since World War Two we in the West (and maybe elsewhere for all I know ) have enjoyed the ability to go to a store, purchase a conveniently small and light cardboard carton cylinder with metal on each end and an easy to rip off strip of plastic that would release one end. Inside was frozen juice concentrate; add a few cups of water, stir, and voila Juice! These juices came all year long, and they contained fruit grown all over the place. Every family I know has used them, they accompanied our cereal or toast, we make juice or popsicles with them, we raise money by selling them in front of the house, when we are sick we mix it with gingerly and everything is better.
Most churches I have been a part of rely on them too, to slack the thirst of the saints after the preacher went on too long on a hot summer day, the sweet lemonade reminds us that God really does exist.
So many uses for frozen concentrate I never even thought about the idea that they would one day be no more. There is a story that is important to me because it reminds me of mortality, but I never thought it had to do with the juice running out.
One morning, preposterously early, our youngest son decided he and I needed to get up to hang out. Called into duty, I headed for the kitchen and the French press. Kettle filled and on, coffee loaded into the press, I went to the fridge to get the kid a bit of orange juice, if we are going to be up this early we might as well have a little moment together, some father son time, maybe one day he would remember such times and know that he is loved and worthy of care, maybe when he is ole enough—even after he has moved out—he would join me for a coffee and we could talk about life, but today he is maybe 3 years old and mostly thinking this way makes me think I should call my dad more and grab a coffee with him.
Anyways, there was no juice in the fridge.
For me, this was not an emotional moment. I hardly had to think at all, I simply bent down, opened the freezer, and pulled out a trusted can of frozen concentrate.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see my son, those few seconds were a lifetime to him. He stared in disbelief, he was just about ready to cry, how could he live with such an incompetent father, incapable of providing juice! What kind of house is this anyways?
He just stood there starring at me looking all sad and incredulous.
I ran some warm water over the container to soften the frozen cylinder inside (not my first time making juice straight outta da freezer).
He looked confused. Why was I not as worried as him? What was I doing?
Like a ballet dancer, I grabbed the plastic juice container that was still in the drying rack…he must have thought I was just going to put it away sadly, like the lowering of a coffin or something…and the concentrate made is comforting plop sound as it fell.
Growing up thrifty I use tap water into the can to make sure I really get all the concentrate, and I also use about 50% more water than recommended, my kids won’t know the difference and the sugar in these things is ridiculous.
He is talking now, gibbering on about something, I guess he has moved on from the juice problem now that I am fixing it.
There is not much in his life I can fix, the environment seems to be broken, his heart is surely going to be broken from time to time, the cost of university and housing is already looking like it might be a problem for him, none of his toys will work as promised. Maybe it says a lot about me that I used to actually enjoy cleaning diapers as it seemed like a very easy thing I could do to help him out.
But this no-juice-thing I could fix and he could tell, so he was comforted and moved on.
At least I thought so, like those juice companies thought they could make exactly the same product forever and never run out of customers.
The water and concentrate are now two entities sharing a jug, like beach sand and water.
I grab a pasta server (in our house it has to serve double duty) and start to stir.
The mix becomes orange.
The child makes a sound I have never heard before so I turn, panicked, unsure what is happening, the coffee isn’t ready and nor am I.
He squeals.
He jumps up and down.
My heart races, it’s like he has been stung by a wasp and is about to absolutely scream.
My wife will wake up.
The other two kids will wake up!
I am amazed how many thoughts I can have in a moment (maybe all that meditation stuff is working).
Right when I think he is about to cry; a smile spreads across his face, he laughs, uncontrollably and yells
“YOU CAN MAKE JUICE!!!!” At the top of his lungs—pure shock in his eyes.
I have performed a miracle. Water into juice.
He looks at me like a hero. I’ve never had anyone look at me quite this way, but I recognize it for what it is instantly.
He asks many questions about this and what else I can do that he doesn’t know about as I sip coffee and swings his feet sitting on an adult chair beside me.
When each person in the house wakes up he runs to them with a small cup of OJ and asks them if they know the I can make juice.
He can’t believe he didn’t know this, and he wants to makes sure everyone does so they can appreciate just how lucky they are to have a person like me in the house, he can’t believe no one told him this before. I find it all terribly cute and adorable and precious.
I know it’s only juice,
it is the very definition of everyday parenting,
but I know this will only happen once,
maybe twice in his life,
and I don’t want the moment to end.
So long frozen juice, thanks for all the memories.
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