Oh, that’s what they’re for?

copyright 2005 Dale Hansen - no reproduction without permission

In the early ‘80s, the Phoenix real estate market was booming. Houses were being bought sold at a dizzying rate.

My brother was a real-estate broker. for much of the early and middle 80s, he had his own realty company. Because the houses couldn’t fit into a showroom, he spent most of his day driving around the valley area. The “valley” as we refer to it, is more than 50 mile from north to south and about 70 miles east to west.

Driving in the city as much and as often as he did was difficult, especially in heavy traffic. Driving that much in the summer when the thermometer can easily top off at over 120 degrees F will tend to overheat a person. (Dry heat nothing!) When you have to wear a tie and dress like a businessman, you get hot and thirsty fast and stay that way.

Thank heaven for 7-11. Or Circle K. Or whatever.

My brother made convenience stores as much a part of his daily commute as home and office.

One thing you learn fairly quickly in the dessert, soda (pop) is not a good choice. It’s too heavy and too sticky, so while it pretends to quench your thirst, it only makes the heat and dryness worse once you’ve finished.

He turned to fruit juices. My brother was a fruit juice coinsure. His favorites were Hanson’s, because, despite the misspelling, his name was already on it. Whenever possible, he’d pull out of the heat and buy a can of Hanson’s apple, or orange, or mango, or if he was feeling particularly daring: papaya and banana mixed. We’re a wild family.

This was only possible when the purchasing department of whatever giant convenience store cooperated. Every once and a while he’d hit store that had nothing. They usually stocked up on soda for the benefit of those who hadn’t been here long enough to know better.

On this occasion, the store where he made his first pit stop of the day was one that had little to offer. It was just down the street from his home, he was on the way to his office, running late (it’s genetic) and grabbed the only juice they had in the refrigerated section.

He’d finished half of it before he made it back outside. Another quarter disappeared en rout.

It was a full quart jar, not one of those little two-bit twelve ounce kiddy drinks. Not for my big brother.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss was apparently never uniformed about the medical miracle of - you guessed it – prune juice. My brother suffered under this innocence, however, suffering being the operative word. He chugged three quarters of the quart jar of prune juice in less than ten minutes.

Someone once said that experience is a lousy teacher because it always gives the exam before the lesson. In my brother’s case, experience is also a lousy driver, though a fast and panicky one.

The benefit of owning your own business is that you can take the odd occasion to call in sick without ever having to explain why.

He was fine the next day, though his wife still chuckled randomly for the next three weeks. Only his immediate family knew about his discomfiture that day.

Then I got a BLOG.

I only hope he’ll forgive me when I see him in heaven.

No, I only hope I don’t start chuckling.