My father was a frugal man. He grew up poor in Idaho, and they made every penny count. Growing up we found recycled objects and fixed them. Sometimes to sell, some times to use ourselves. When he found a good deal he jumped on it. So when one of his sisters called him to let him know where he could get apple juice he got in the truck and picked up a dozen boxes.
They were large boxes, at least a gallon, inside a box with a tap sticking out the bottom. I remember it wasn’t very sweet, and had a great amount of pulp. But good old dad told us, “Don’t waste a drop.”
So for weeks I came home from school and took a glass of juice and went off to watch the Flintstones.
I was told juice was better for me than pop. Some weeks into it this new juice campaign I was started to agree. I even started to bottle to take to school for lunch.
One day I came home and the juice was gone. I went in to the Washroom, (Pronounced “WORSHroom” in my family but that is another story.) The juice was gone; all the boxes had disappeared from the shelves.
I went to my dad and asked who had stolen the juice. He explained that his sister had called to tell us that the juice had started to ferment in the boxes and it contained alcohol.
I asked again,” Where is the juice, right now?” I almost ran for the garbage can at that point.
It had turned out the company knew that the juice was going bad and that is why they had gotten rid of it. This meant they had thrown it away and expected it to be left there. That didn’t stop my family.
It also explained the headaches in the morning and my new found love of the Flintstones. Dad went down and bought some apply juice from the store but it would never be the same. So if you ever see me drink my apple juice down really fast. You will know why. “I was a teenage Wine-o.”