Root Beer Rascals

Pop-pop and his family used to make homemade root beer. The root beer contained yeast. This meant that the longer the root beer sat, the more fizzy and powerful it became. Pop-pop’s sister, my great-aunt Beryl, obviously did not take this into consideration when she took six bottles of it and hid them in the basement for herself.

Pop-pop was twelve years old and was home alone. He had decided to go explore the basement. On a shelf, he found her stash of hidden root beer.

Pop-pop’s first thought was, Now why on earth would there be six bottles of root beer on a cluttered shelf in the basement? Then it hit him. Someone must be hiding it down here! Beryl must have done it. She’s the only one as mischievous as me.

He took the bottle upstairs. He put five in the fridge. The other one he opened.

Whoosh! Root beer was flying all over the kitchen. This was not good. There was root beer on the ceiling, root beer on the floor, root beer on the windows, root beer on the door. And the root beer was still spraying out of the bottle like Old Faithful. This was not good at all.

Pop-pop looked around. He felt like screaming. Root beer was all over the floor. It clung to the walls. There was even root beer dripping from the ceiling. This was going to be a lo-ong day.

A half-hour later Pop-pop had mopped the floor, cleaned the counters, and gotten most of the root beer cleaned up. Only the ceiling was left. He was just going to get the stepladder when he heard his older sister, Beryl, and her friend outside.

“…and the best part is, no one knows about our little stash of root beer!”

Pop-pop got an evil look in his eyes. He quickly shook up each bottle until each one was about to burst. Just as he shut the fridge, the girls burst into the kitchen, bubbling over with excitement.

“I found your ‘secret stash’ of root beer,” he said, casually leaning against the refrigerator. “The bottles are in the fridge.” Beryl angrily shoved Pop-pop out of the way and threw open the refrigerator door. Pop-pop tip-toed away.

“They’re here,” said my aunt Beryl with a sigh of relief. The tone of her voice changed to one of disgust. “Frank must’ve drank one though. Let’s have a drink, Juanita.”

As Beryl was opening the bottle, Juanita noticed the ceiling. “STOP!” she screamed, but she was too late. Whoosh! Root beer was flying all over the kitchen. Again.

When Pop-pop’s mom got home and saw the kitchen, she made my aunt Beryl clean up every last bit of the mess, and Pop-pop didn’t get in any trouble at all.

Timothy Andrew Metcalf, Tennessee
Published in Grannie Annie, Vol. 1

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