Those 3 p.m. Dr. Peppers

As health conscious as I try to be now as an adult, I know that, as a child, I drank way too much pop, soda, Coke – whatever you want to call it – and ate an excessive amount of Little Debbie snack cakes. Fudge rounds, oatmeal cream pies, nutty buddies. They all tasted delightful and I could not resist.

I don’t blame my parents. They tried to limit my intake and suggest healthier options like apple slices or a banana. But I somehow always found my way to the sweets. Dietitians and nutritionists will wince at this next confession – my snack cakes were usually always washed down with a can of Dr. Pepper.

But I can justify the Dr. Pepper. It has sentimental meaning. I’m not sure when it became his thing, but my Grandpa Cooper loved a good Dr. Pepper. He and grandma always had cans of it stocked in their refrigerator, in a plastic container shoved way in the back on the lower shelf. It was always there, and it tasted as sweet as grandma’s hands looked when they were carefully guiding material under the needle of her patient sewing machine.

My sister and I spent many Sunday afternoons after church at grandma and grandpa’s century-old farmhouse. My grandma wasn’t a fancy cook, but her dinner spread never left anyone hungry. After mom and grandma finished washing dishes, we’d spend the rest of the day lounging in the living room or running around the front yard. When the clock struck 3 p.m., grandpa began his weekly ritual. We’d climb up in his lap in the tan, corduroy chair, and he would read the comic section of the Sunday paper. Grandpa called them the funny papers, and even though I can’t remember one cartoon from all those years of the Coffeyville Journal, I can still recall how all four of us grandkids strategically fit in his lap. While grandpa read the comic strips, grandma prepared the Dr. Pepper. She’d pour it into small, plastic glasses for each of us. It was like a weekly dose of magic juice that kicked off a new week. It tasted so syrupy and cold. I can feel the carbonation on the roof of my mouth right now.

I don’t think our parents partook of the Dr. Pepper very often. It was something special grandpa enjoyed sharing with just his grandkids. We all lived within a few miles of our grandparents and saw them often. We were close, and there was something religious and comforting about drinking Dr. Pepper with them. No matter where we were from Sunday to Sunday, 3 p.m. was Dr. Pepper time.

Grandpa passed away 16 years ago last month. It was mid-January and so cold. His death was unexpected, and losing him in the darkest, most lonely month of the year just made it that much more depressing. Traveling home from college and spending those next few days at home were a blur, but I’ll never forget how warm the sun felt on our shoulders as we stood around my uncle’s living room the day of Grandpa’s funeral. We’d finished the family lunch, and the mood was a little lighter now that the sad ceremony was behind us. We were starting to smile, even laugh as we remembered Robert Cleo Cooper. Grandpa wasn’t with us anymore, but recollecting the ornery sparkle in his blue eyes, his sense of humor, his constant whistle of old hymns and all the funny stories he used to tell would keep his spirit alive. As golden rays shone through the room’s large bay window, the clock struck 3 p.m. I looked around at all the family – cousins, aunts, uncles, parents and siblings – some sitting and some standing. They were all holding a can or glass of Dr. Pepper. “Gail, here.” Someone touched my arm, and when I turned around, I was handed my own cup. 

“Here’s to dad,” my uncle said, as he raised his can. “May 3:00 always be Dr. Pepper time.”

That swig of sugar never tasted better.

I’ve had hundreds of Dr. Peppers since then, but nowadays, I try to limit myself to one per week, minus the Little Debbie snack cakes. When the late afternoon sun peers through my kitchen windows to warm my face, I take a moment to savor the indulgence of sweet nostalgia. I love the taste of Dr. Pepper, but I love the memory of Sunday afternoons with Grandpa even more, and that’s something that’s always worthy of a 3 p.m. toast.