I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.