I enjoyed a cold drink at a softball game today. 

It’s a perfect place for a cold drink, pronounced “cole drank,” or a “sody water,” as my husband would say. 

My folks were cole drank people. We enjoyed them at barbecues, or picnics, or slow, puttering cruises on the old john boat.

They’re best enjoyed ice-cold straight out of a scratched-up Igloo, or better yet, out of a Jerry Clower story.

Marcel Ledbetter tore up a beer joint with a chainsaw when the owners of said establishment refused to serve him a “cold sody water,” to use my husband’s preference, due to his bare feet and over“hauled” apparel. 

He didn’t want a beer. He’d had good Christian raising. All poor Marcel wanted was a “belly washer Nehi” after a hard day of pulpwooding in the heat.

That’s the kind of thirst we experience so frequently in the South, where the summers drain the life and the electrolytes right out your shriveled, dehydrated pores. 

Water is best, we know. Or some kind of sports drink. 

But there are special occasions.

“Cold drink” reminds me of diesel fuel and tractor grease, of Granddaddy’s turtle shell hat, and of a glass bottle that leaves a sweat ring on the countertop of the hardware store.

Only a cold drink will do when you plan to spend the day reeling in the shell crackers when they’re on their beds during the first full moon in May. We got to pick our special brand at the store. 

My dad was a Sundrop man.

Mother preferred Pepsi.

My sister’s favorite was Peach Nehi.

She and Marcel would have gotten along just fine.

And me? I’m in heaven with a Grapico or an IBC Root Beer.

Only a cold drink is suitable for visiting on the porch on Sunday afternoons, the dog thumping its tail on the wood floorboards, while the old folks talk about when it’s going to rain.

It’s only the old folks and country people who use the term “cold drink” today. Most of the younger people actually say what it is, a Mountain Dew or a Sprite, that is if they’re not imbibing some high octane energy drink that will keep them going until 3:47 am while they play Roblox, or “snap” their buddies, or binge a show called “Sexy Sultry Island.” 

We’re so worried over the sugar in our beloved cold drinks that we’ve traded them for these sugar-free potions with enough caffeine to power a small city and give you heart arrhythmias.

What’s wrong with our young people? We’ve got loaded teas that cost as much as a car payment.

This tea is not your grandma’s Luzianne.

They’re sold at establishments called “Lady Jane’s Nutrition Boutique and Bait and Tackle.” You can get your Tyler candles and your minnows at the same visit, and use the gas money you saved to invest in a gallon-sized plastic jug of colored water with some magic dust.

Kids would rather have one of those overpowered, fruity libations than an old timey RC.

Probably tastes like what the good inhabitants of Sexy Sultry Island enjoy.

The ballgame is over, and we lost. There’s one remaining swig left in my can, now the same 70 degrees or so as the air temperature. My husband is carrying it for me.

“Do you want the rest of your sody water?” he asks.

“Nope.”

He dumps it out. It’s probably feeding some industrious ants right now.

It’s the one cold drink a week I allow myself now. Middle age and much of any kind of drink other than water don’t go together too well.

But in Heaven, I hope the cooler in my mansion is stocked with unlimited purple- and amber-colored glass bottles.

Better yet, I hope there’s a beer joint, one that Marcel won’t have to bust up just to get his Nehi. 

I know Who will be serving. 

And maybe living water tastes like Grapico.