To Tang

The drink of astronauts so why not the drink of campers? In the 1970’s, every family who camped, camped with Tang. We packed the glass jar in a box, the bright orange lid sticking out of top, a beacon for the thirsty.

At home, it was always frozen juice concentrate and I hated orange juice. Too thick, not sweet enough. But camping, the powered breakfast drink was perfect, thin like water and tasting nothing like oranges and everything like halloween candy in a glass.

We would make up pitcher after pitcher, getting water from the spigot. We were roughing it, having to haul the pitcher all the way back to the picnic table. Mom is making pancakes on the Coleman cookstove, the smell of bacon drifting up over the tent. We pull out copper plates and plastic coffee cups, eat everything as fast as she can cook it. We easily finish the pitcher of Tang. We race to put on swimsuits, grab our towels and inner tubes and head to the lake.

For lunch, we make our own sandwiches. Someone makes another pitcher of Tang and sets it on the table. My younger sister sits down to a cup full, and soon, the bees arrive. They are drawn to her and she finds, as she is drinking, three bees clustered around her mouth. Don’t move, we say. She is still as they land on the rim of her cup. They are too close to her to shoo away. We watch her and wait for them to leave.  I can hear their hum echo in the cup.