These brown leaves might at first signal a fall scene, but on closer examination the slight remnants of snow cry out spring. Two items close, but in memories miles apart. I got a treat every summer growing up, two weeks in Westbrook with Nana and Grampa. Sleeping on the porch, penny ante on the kitchen table, scanning the latest issue of the Saturday Evening Post, sitting on the workshop stairs listening to the saws scream and walks to the Dairy Queen almost paled next to that jug of Tropicana. With four little ones around huddled around our breakfast table, Mom settled for cans of concentrated orange juice. Small frozen cans plopped in the pitcher then four cans of water was a morning ritual. I loved cold oj in the morning, in fact, any time of day. On sweltering days in July, Mom popped in a hunk of ice cream and took it to the blender. Mmmmmmm. Like heaven! But breakfast in Westbrook was something else with that tall glass of Tropicana, sitting next to the corn flakes. The taste was so different, so delicious, so memorable. There's a bottle in my fridge this morning. No pulp!