Over a Half Can of Pepsi

"Hi Grandpa, how was your day?" All 6'4" of the cowboy who had once laid railroad and conquered the west is now saddled in a brown rocking chair. One arthritic hand covered with leathered age spots rubs a head rimmed in only the thinnest silver. Regardless of being a tomboy, I kiss him on the shiny spot and pull up a chair next to him. But, before I can sit, he points to a small blue cup on Grandma's old basin sink.

"Not too bad," he says while clinking his teeth back into place. I detour to the fridge and he smiles. He doesn't bother getting up because it's long since been an easy task, but patiently waits for me to pour him half a can of Pepsi.

I don't know precisely when it became a family institution, but I'm sure it started with the man in the chair. He never drank a full can, only half. And if there wasn't someone to share it with, the can was covered and placed back in the fridge. It made a limp refreshment later on, but nothing was ever wasted at Grandma's and Grandpa's house; and it was best that all understood that early on.

"Is Grandma out in the garden?" I ask.

Grandpa sips his Pepsi like a shot of something strong from an old saloon, although to my knowledge he was never a drinking man. "No, she's over at the Beiling's trying to swap some apples for cherries."

"Is she going to can them or make some jelly?"

He shakes his head no, "With the late frost this year I don't imagine there will be enough for either."

Rubbing my hands together like a mischievous kid, my face splits into a grin, "Then it's either a pie or fresh nibbling."

Grandpa grins back at me, then sips his soda. Suddenly, he gets a faraway look and says, "You never know how good a cherry pie is unless..."

This is what I was waiting for, "Unless, Grandpa?"

Full blue eyes come back to me and he says, "How about a ride?"

I leap up, "I'll go get the truck!" Abandoning my half can of Pepsi, I run out of the room.

Grandpa's truck is white with a red cab interior. The letters on the tailgate have long since faded and become unreadable; but, anyone knows a Ford when they see one. Climbing inside, I'm struck by the smell of dust and hot vinyl. A smell that would for years to come bring immediate nostalgia. I pump the gas and turn the ignition. With a deep grumble, the trusted Ford comes to life and, with all the experience of two full months with a driver's license, I back down the dirt driveway, narrowly avoiding one of Grandma's prize rosebushes.

On the porch Grandpa waits with his cane and burnt Stetson hat. Very slowly he ambles his way around to the driver's side door, while I slide over to make room. As he moves I'm reminded of what they say about old drivers. Perhaps, it is not entirely safe letting Grandpa drive, but no one ever recommends otherwise. "Creak!" the door opens and he hands me his cane while gently sitting down and shutting the door with a firm hand. Holding the wheel like soft leather reins, he maneuvers us back into the semi-circular drive and then forward onto the road.

One can sometimes guess where Grandpa is taking them by whether he turns left or right. The mystery is revealed a bit at that moment. Today he's turning left - we're heading to the reservoir.

The reservoir is located up the mountain on a dangerously curvy road. It was one of the main wonders that turned this little piece of desert into a habitable place. The other was the mountain itself that wrapped cool arms around three sides of the town, protecting it from a quarter of the day's heat. After passing the dam, the trees start to fill in the occasional bush making it an honest oasis. Memories fill my mind of countless fishing trips, learning to swim, touching a deer, ... so many memories over sixteen years of summers.

Now, one might expect Grandpa to share some story about how the Wild West was won as the truck rambled along kicking up dust - along with some sage advice that would give one's life meaning in the end. But that is not how my Grandpa works and it took me awhile to understand that. Grandpa is not a man of much conversation. He came from a world where men of "action" were not supper hyped up men full of adrenaline and speed, like the ones in movies with an eloquent last line; but rather, those who communicated by their actions and their choices in life. For example, I knew Grandpa loved me because he made the effort to spend time with me. And now, with the cowboy being so much slower, each of his individual actions have become much more valuable because each one held the weight of many unsaid words.

Pulling off the road and down a slight embankment, Grandpa parks the Ford under a tree by the water. Enthused, I jump out and make my way bounding over to the fallen log only to stop short. There, wiggling under the back end of the log, is a wild skunk. Having heard my haphazard approach, he gives one more frantic pull and frees himself from his latest hiding place. Immediately, he hisses at me - stumbles a bit sideways - then closer towards me. Although he seemed injured, his movement wasn't impaired enough to stop his impending attack.

Long ago Grandpa went over what I was to do when encountering a wild animal. It was unbelievably hard calming my racing heart in order to stand perfectly still while preparing for flight at the same time. However, the problem at the moment was that I couldn't breath deeply enough to calm my adrenaline infused heart. I couldn't get enough air into my lungs to call for help either. So, I stand there watching the little black eyes focus on me with accusation for all his pain. I know instantly that he was going to attack me with those incredible teeth and claws - and that I couldn't do anything about it.

Some people say that a lot of thoughts run through one's mind in an impending crisis or that their mind goes blank. As for me, I just looked for Grandpa.

Looking over my shoulder, I see him just in time as he pulls up his rifle one last inch and fires. Smoke comes off the gun, and with Grandpa's hat lowered over his eyes, I can see for a moment back into time at the man that he once was.

Only the smallest sound comes from the skunk. The shot is clean and the animal is no longer in pain. As for me, I'm a speechless statue. Grandpa sits me down and takes care of the skunk. When he comes back we don't say much as we watch fish touch the top of the water sending circles repeating across the reservoir. Holding my young, clear, new hand in his old, well-used one, I think on what it means to be old, young, and a ripple off of Grandpa. I ponder what my own actions communicate to others about me; and I think on how long it will take for me to drive as well as Grandpa.

After twilight, we drive up to the porch. Very slowly Grandpa climbs out and makes his way into the house with a shuffling step. Much slower than him, I park the truck under his work shed's carport. I don't even make it to the back screen door before the smell of fresh baked cherry pie reaches out to me. My stomach responds with a fresh growl of hunger, while I pick up the pace and cut towards the kitchen.

"You left your drink on the table, Heather." I come to a halt by the doorway.

"Yes, Grandma. I'm sorry." Hoping this wasn't a prelude to missing out on the pie, I jump in with, "I'll wash the dishes."

My tiny five-foot tall Grandma gives me the Eye of scrutiny and consideration only to break it off when Grandpa points to his empty blue cup. She smiles at him and relents. "It's in the fridge. Don't do it again. Now, how about some whipped-cream on your pie?"

"Yes, please." At the fridge I down my limp soda with a smack and pull out a fresh can. Taking Grandpa's blue cup and Grandma's pink cup off the basin, I split the can between them.
The pie melts the whip-cream, making white drizzles down the sides. Mmmmmmmm. Grandpa's right. You never know how good a piece of cherry pie is - almost as good as a half can of Pepsi.