The Notebooks of Norman Rockwell

I

How about a woman sitting in a car, drinking from a bottle of Orange Crush? No, the label will be upside down. How about a man in a uniform handing the girl the bottle? No. His hand would cover up part of the bottle. How about setting the bottle on the running board of the car? No, then they’re not enjoying it; then it looks as if Orange Crush isn’t the most important thing in their lives. Which of course it is. Young people dote on Orange Crush. They wouldn’t be without it. They carry it to weddings, wakes, and quilting bees. They have it for breakfast, sip it with the rosy smile of ecstasy on their face. Stop. This way lies to madness. I know. I’ll stand the man outside the car and balance the bottle precariously on the door with the woman’s fingers pushing at the back of the bottle as if she were giving it to him. And I’ll put in some spring blossoms and a joyful sky in the background and a young girl playing to convey the sense of bliss which accompanies the drinking of Orange Crush.