The isoprenes hung heavily in the air around the pine tree boughs like mean gossip in a small, Southern town. I could see the haze extending to the far horizon, in staggered slices of landscape, each one just a bit lighter than the one in front of it, cascading into pale indistinction. The cicadas filled the valley with their strident, insistent sirens. Who, I wondered, could think of reproduction in such oppressive heat and humidity; who could find allure in the sticky embrace of such a sweltering sycophant?
We marched in route step through the forest along a well-worn path that had seen generations of footsteps in the khaki-colored soil: the pale color of cowardice, stubbled with stubborn chert here and there to twist ankles. I learned in time to kick those stones off the path without breaking my stride.
At first, the man in front of me had a slender, dark line of perspiration on the back of his shirt. But as we marched those endless miles through the heat, his shirt eventually turned into a uniform flowing with sweat. The man dripped with each step like a metronome. Those droplets were eagerly swallowed by the dusty-dry soil.
After what seemed like hours of marching, we came to an expansive, open area that looked much like a picnic area in a state forest. Then I noticed them. There were two of them and they were hanging from a tree like bloated carcases in a slaughter house. In some respects, they looked just like duffel bags except they were much fatter. I had never seen anything like them before.
I asked what they were and I was told that they were Lister Bags (cf. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Lister+bag ) filled with iced tea. Somehow the thought of cold tea revolted me. Who could drink such a thing? But I was told that it was actually “pretty good.”
Later, after I stood in line with the others, I got a canteen cup of that unsweetened tea. I sipped tentatively and tasted the strangeness of the polymers from the rubber lining of the Lister Bag. But the drink was cool and refreshing. It was a welcomed guest on that hot and humid day.
And now, years and years later, I found a bottled unsweetened tea for sale in my local grocery store. I brought one bottle home and sat on the couch sipping the tea. It was Lister Bag tea all over again. My wife could not understand the Christmas-morning joy I found in that glass of tea.
I am thankful for that hot and humid day, filled with isoprenes and cicadas, and khaki-colored soil. But I am especially grateful for that canvass bag of iced tea with its generous gift of refreshment.
We marched in route step through the forest along a well-worn path that had seen generations of footsteps in the khaki-colored soil: the pale color of cowardice, stubbled with stubborn chert here and there to twist ankles. I learned in time to kick those stones off the path without breaking my stride.
At first, the man in front of me had a slender, dark line of perspiration on the back of his shirt. But as we marched those endless miles through the heat, his shirt eventually turned into a uniform flowing with sweat. The man dripped with each step like a metronome. Those droplets were eagerly swallowed by the dusty-dry soil.
After what seemed like hours of marching, we came to an expansive, open area that looked much like a picnic area in a state forest. Then I noticed them. There were two of them and they were hanging from a tree like bloated carcases in a slaughter house. In some respects, they looked just like duffel bags except they were much fatter. I had never seen anything like them before.
I asked what they were and I was told that they were Lister Bags (cf. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Lister+bag ) filled with iced tea. Somehow the thought of cold tea revolted me. Who could drink such a thing? But I was told that it was actually “pretty good.”
Later, after I stood in line with the others, I got a canteen cup of that unsweetened tea. I sipped tentatively and tasted the strangeness of the polymers from the rubber lining of the Lister Bag. But the drink was cool and refreshing. It was a welcomed guest on that hot and humid day.
And now, years and years later, I found a bottled unsweetened tea for sale in my local grocery store. I brought one bottle home and sat on the couch sipping the tea. It was Lister Bag tea all over again. My wife could not understand the Christmas-morning joy I found in that glass of tea.
I am thankful for that hot and humid day, filled with isoprenes and cicadas, and khaki-colored soil. But I am especially grateful for that canvass bag of iced tea with its generous gift of refreshment.
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