Memory Journal: "Ice Water!"

The books and photos are down and the boxes are piling up. “The Move” to Chicago has officially begun.  With the impending loss of 300 square feet, I’ve been exploring the dark crannies of dusty plastic storage pins and narrow dresser drawers, purging the never-used and under-sentimentalized trinkets I tucked away a long time ago.  But when I found one item obscured in the darkness underneath the kitchen sink, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the donation pile next the yoga weights and VHS tapes.  My mom gave it to me for my first apartment five years ago, but that’s not why it’s sentimental.  I’ve never used it, but that silly little yellow plastic contraption always brings a big smile to my face because it reminds me of a fun family memory - one that my parents and I still reference often.

When I was little, I liked juice.  Apple juice, to be precise.  I liked apple juice, and my parents liked me.  So whenever I was lounging on the couch in the basement family room watching Sesame Street and my sippy cup slurped empty, my spoiled little self would hold out my arm, my cup in hand, and loudly call out to my parents in the kitchen upstairs, “JUICE!!!” - an Annie line now lovingly parodied by some members of my family.

I eventually outgrew my proclivity for apple juice and transitioned to the healthier beverage choice of plain ‘ole ice water.  But my preferred method of beverage delivery has stayed the same: I like it when people get it for me.  My husband now carries that burden.  Indeed, if there’s one question you’re guaranteed to hear at our house at least once each evening it’s “Sweetie, can you please get me a glass of ice water?”  Unsurprisingly, he’s started referring to me as the "Signs girl," referencing the movie character who mysteriously leaves glasses of water all over the house.  

Like crazy Mel Gibson in that scary movie, my parents were the original ice-water providers.  I’d regularly call out from my bedroom upstairs, “C’YOU GET ME A GLASS OF ICE WATER PLEASE?!”  And they’d go all Jimmy John’s on me and deliver a glass of cold filtered ice water in a frosty mug freaky fast.  Even when I’d come home from college or now when I visit from out of town, they always offer to get me a glass of ice water.  It’s a simple act, but it feels - and tastes - like home.

One warm evening when I was in high school, sitting on my bed doing homework / practicing viola / listening to my new Coldplay CD, I felt a familiar parch in my throat.  I looked to my water bottle: it was empty or worse, luke warm.  Time to make my familiar nightly request, so I called out to parents downstairs:

“Yes, Annie?” My mom responded, sounding farther away than normal.
“Can you please get me a glass of ice water?”
“What?”
They must have been two floors down in the basement because they couldn’t hear me well.  So I turned my head to face the door and tried again: “Ice water, can you get me some please?”
“What?!”
I sighed as my teenage stubbornness took over, “I need ice water, please!” I shouted louder.
“Okay! I’ll send your Dad up!”
“Okay, thanks!”

Freaky fast.  My Dad knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

He bounced in with both feet landing on the ground simultaneously.  Before I could even hope that he didn’t spill any water on that jumpy entry, I realized that he wasn’t holding a glass in his hand.  No, my parents mistook my request for ice water for something else.  My Dad hurried upstairs and jumped into the room like a mock superhero because they thought I was in the midst of a winged assault.

“What are you doing?”  I asked with a smile on my face.
“I thought you said you needed this.”  He said, hanging the plastic object in defeat.
“No, ice water!” I laughed.

We haven’t stopped laughing since. So what was he holding in his hand, and what did I find under my sink yesterday?

A fly swatter.