When I was growing up we “pilgrimaged” to Missouri every
summer for the family reunion. The trips in the late 1950s and early 1960s I
remembered the best. Our family endured a hot two or three days of driving
depending on stops to visit friends en route. While the visit with all my
cousins was much looked forward to, the drive was not exactly the trip’s high point. My younger brother and sister and I quickly grew bored regardless of
the games we played. The games did serve to keep us occupied for a spell.
Mom would buy a set of “car
games,” in a box. There was one game played on cards divided into squares and
you had to spell specified words finding letters seen on roadside signs. You
could only use the first letter of a sign’s word if it was horizontal. But we
could use any letter in a word if it was displayed vertically or diagonally.
Needless to say there were certain letters that you just could not find. “Q”, “X”,
and “Z” were challenges. It kept us quiet and we didn’t make a peep to alert
the others when we spied a sign with a rare letter.
There were other cards with
different states’ license tags that we searched for to check off. Of course
driving through northeast Texas we did not see many out-of-state plates. We
also argued about what breed each road-killed critter was. Of course there was
Twenty Questions and Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral? I don’t think kids play
these games today. They were “educational” in that it forced us to think and be
creative.
The high point of the road-part of
the trip, both to and from Missouri, came too early on the outbound leg and way
too late on the return trip. I looked forward to it thinking that it wasn’t
soon enough, but it would probably have been better if it had been somewhat
later. The anticipation was great.
As we drove north from Houston
toward Texarkana on US Route 59, we passed through Cleveland (not Ohio’s) and a
few miles further on was Shepherd, not even a wide spot in the road. Shepard’s
population didn’t number a hundred I believe. We were only some 60 miles north
of Houston, but it seemed to take forever to get there.
On the right side of the four-lane
highway was Ward’s Cider Stand. It was a tiny roofed, open-front stand like fresh
fruit was sold from. Built of corrugated tin and plywood, it had a large
plywood sign proclaiming its name in bold red hand-painted letters—WARD’S CIDER.
We’d park on the shoulder and
there was usually a car or two already there. I’d just about be out the door
before the car stopped on the red gravel shoulder worrying that they may have
taken the last bottle, but there were always plenty.
The stand had a narrow board
counter and was open-backed. A man was behind the counter, I assumed Mr. Ward
himself, and a young girl or two. A top-opening red Coke-Cola chest held the
cider bottles. Raising the lid revealed a water-filled chest with big chunks of
ice and dozens of upright floating bottles. It was about 98 degrees temperature
with matching humidity being an East Texas summer. There was nothing that
looked colder. The clear bottles had a large round body with a long neck closed
by white or black screw caps. I don’t know what their capacity was, maybe a
quart and a half. No label marred their contour.
Mr. Ward offered three flavors:
apple, cherry, and grape. The apple looked like liquid gold and was our
favorite. The cherry was deep red and the grape so dark it looked like NuGrape
soda as sold at James Coney Island hotdog
stand in Houston. This being the 1950s and early 1960s, they were
expensive at a dollar a bottle. Dad would buy two or three bottles of apple and
one of cherry—usually. We never did buy a bottle of grape.
One of the girls would pluck the
bottles from the ice water, hand it to Mr. Ward and he rolled it in a sheet of
newspaper laid on the counter and twisted the paper’s end at the bottle’s
mouth. I’d carry the bottles back to the car and Mom would peel off the damp
newsprint and stick them in our Igloo ice chest. Igloos were metal in those
days, not plastic as introduced in 1962. The Igloo plant was outside of Houston
by the way.
We drank the cider from paper cups
when we stopped at a roadside park and made baloney or pimento loaf sandwiches on a concrete picnic table.
On the sandwiches were Kraft sandwich spread and American sliced processed cheese.
Sometimes we sliced up a big dill pickle. There were virtually no fast food
places found on highways.
I don’t know if Mr. Ward actually
made the cider—doubtful—or if it was from bulk batches he bought or maybe from
a concentrate. I don’t think it was the latter. It was too rich, too flavorful.
And sweet too. Those paper cups were just too small. I’ve since tried many
brands of apple cider and juice. None approach that remembered taste on those
hot summer days. By the time we got to Missouri the cider was a fondly
remembered thing. But on the way home we had another chance to stop and had the
rationed treat for another week once home.
A couple of years we took a
roundabout way home to spend a few days at Panama City, Florida. That
regrettably meant we returned home from the east on US Route 90—there was no
Interstate 10 in those days. Ward’s was far to the north.
In 1970, the summer after I
returned from Vietnam, I climbed onto my new British Triumph 650 motorcycle and
headed to the family farm in Missouri to decompress. A couple of months working
on the farm, sweating it out shoveling sheep poop, chopping silage, filling
different farmers’ silos for the coming winter with my cousin, and consorting
with healthy German-Missouri farm girls, was just what I needed.
Tearing north on Route 59, I saw
the city limits sign for Shepherd. I no doubt smiled. There was Ward’s, like a
roadside oasis. I purchased a single bottle for $1.50 and Mr. Ward wrapped it
extra thick with newspaper as it would be carried in an army rucksack strapped
on the motorcycle. I nursed that bottle to make it last for through three-day
trip. Sounds like I have a case of cider-dependency….
Almost three months later I
stopped again at that oasis. Mr. Ward wasn’t there, but I told his daughter—kinda
cute—how much that stand had met to me and my family over the years. I asked
her to tell that to her dad. I bought two bottles of apple.
The next time I went up Route 59
in the summer time was maybe two years later. I spotted the lonely stand there
on the roadside. Still standing, leaning a little, but the sign was gone. There
was no house nearby to make inquiries. Over forty-five years later I still
think of Ward’s Cider when I drive through Shepherd. I’ve now no idea where the
stand had stood. I’ve still not found a cider to compare.
I have similar memories of watermelons. Oh, the joys and tastes from our youth. Doris
ReplyDeleteGordo, my parents took a vacation every summer--we had to get out of town or they'd still be calling my dad out to the oilfields! LOL We always went to a relative's house to visit, and they would come visit us when they went on vacation--that's just how it was "back in the day"--I think it made families closer and sure was good to let the cousins get to know one another.
ReplyDeleteI was the youngest by far in my family. My sisters were 10 and 12 when I came along (SURPRISE!) LOL I remember, though, making the trek from OK to California to visit my aunt and uncle who were stationed at San Diego. We set off with our cooler, bologna, cheese, etc. inside, and mason jars of ice tea. My sisters had learned to make those gum-wrapper chains, so a lot of Wrigley's gum was chewed.
I can only imagine my dad's concerns (hidden well!) at crossing the desert in an older car with Mom and his three daughters. The first time we went was in 1960, when I was three. The second time, when I was 6. I remember Disneyland, of course, even all these years later--what a fantastic sight! But I also remember my aunt making Underwood's deviled ham sandwiches, and it was the first time I'd had them. OH GOSH! Those were soooo good.
It's strange how we remember certain things about childhood, isn't it? Your post brought back those memories I'd forgotten about--how great a bologna sandwich could be, eaten at a roadside picnic table, and then that first time of eating deviled ham. WONDERFUL! LOL
BTW, you made me wish for some of that cider. That sounds like nectar from the gods.
I miss that cider too. In fact right after writing that I bought a couple of bottles, but it was lacking. While not quite as good, I did discover some years ago an excellent Mexican apple cider soda (not just apple soda, but apple cider soda) bottled by Jarritos. The customs guys know me so they don't say anything when I come back into the US with a couple of cases.
DeleteWell, at least you found something CLOSE. I love that it has fizz to it.
DeleteGordo, I found this link on Google--may not have anything that you recognize, but thought it was worth a shot.
ReplyDeletehttps://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=ward's+apple+cider&*&spf=69
I've heard of and tried the "Ward's." Obviously not the same :-( Don't get e started on hard apple cider. I got hooked on that as served in pubs in SE England and introduced to me my my editor as we traveled from pub to pub. Each pub makes their own and its served, complete with bits of apple skin, in big cut glass mugs stored in freezer. Jezzz, that's great stuff. Really sneaks up on you though.
DeleteWhen I was a little squirt, My grandpa would take me to Darigold ice cream store. I would get a cup of orange sherbert and vanilla ice cream. This was in duluth Minn. I still love the stuff!
ReplyDeleteI like that too, Tracy. I can't recall the last time I had any.
DeleteThanks for the trip down memory lane, Gordo. I grew up in apple country in Southern Illinois. The cider sold every September at Apple Festival was (and is) amazing. We'd bring it home in half gallon jugs, sip it from cone shaped paper cups as we walked the midway and Main Street. Delicious!
ReplyDeleteI'll have to start the search in Missouri this fall.
Delete