— A NOTE BEFORE YOU READ ON —
The Sweetbriar Bottling Co. closed quietly in the autumn of 1978. We here at the Back Page keep printing these notices because people keep writing in, and as long as people keep writing in, we will keep printing. Read with a soft heart. Reply if you can. The world is held together by such small things.
· Wanted ·
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№ 0412 — wanted
ONE UNOPENED BOTTLE OF SWEETBRIAR SPRITZ — gold cap preferred, blue cap acceptable, any year. My grandmother drank one each evening with her supper for thirty-one years. I still have her glass; I would like to fill it once more, and then I am letting both of them go. Any condition. Will travel.
— Eunice Whitlow, RFD 2, the yellow house with the porch swing.
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№ 0413 — wanted
THE RECIPE. Or any honest fragment of it. Edith Sweetbriar-Park is rumored to have kept her father's notebook in a green tin. I am her cousin (twice removed, but kindly remembered). If you are reading this, Edith — we can talk. I will not publish anything you share.
— C. Sweetbriar-Adair, Box 14.
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№ 0414 — wanted
THE RADIO JINGLE, 1968-ish. It went "It isn't lemonade, it's Sweetbriar—" and there was a small bell at the end. Will trade my late wife's cherry-pie recipe (the GOOD one) if you can hum the rest of it onto a tape. The bell was small and clear.
— Mr. Halliburton, the second house past the feed store.
· For Sale / Offered ·
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№ 0415 — offered
TWELVE (12) EMBOSSED BOTTLES — found in the basement of the duplex I bought on Whisper Lane. No caps. They smell, faintly & surprisingly, of cardamom. $4 each, the whole twelve for $40. I would rather they go to a Believer than a collector. Sincere replies only.
— Mira P., evenings best.
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№ 0416 — offered
DELIVERY CAP, BLUE & YELLOW — soft from wear; the patch is sewn, not glued. It was my father's. Make me an offer that honors him; I won't take anything less and won't ask anything more.
— J.D., Sycamore Street.
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№ 0417 — offered (free)
TASTINGS, SATURDAYS, OUT OF MY GARAGE. My mother's notebook holds what she SWEARS is the original. I am not selling the notebook. Come anyway. Bring your own glass and something small to share. The lemon balm is in. No charge, ever.
— Pearl M., 71 Quill Lane, garage on the left.
· Missed Connections ·
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№ 0418 — missed connection
TO THE WOMAN AT HUBBARD'S DINER COUNTER — you told me Sweetbriar was just a memory. It isn't. I made some. I would like to bring you a glass. You wore a yellow scarf. I had the meatloaf and the courage of a smaller man. Same booth, Thursdays.
— The fellow with the kind ears.
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№ 0419 — missed connection
TO THE BOY FROM CAMP, SUMMER OF '74 — you said when we grew up, we'd open a Sweetbriar stand together. We were twelve. I am still here. The lemon balm is in. Write me at the address you remember; I never left.
— You'll know.
· Lost & Found ·
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№ 0420 — found
CRACKED SWEETBRIAR BOTTLE, gold cap missing, near the bend in the river path past the willow. Contents long gone, but the embossing is whole and the bee is still smiling. If you'd like it for sentimental reasons — no charge. I'm just glad someone might want it.
— Leave a note in the mailbox at 9 Riverbend.
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№ 0421 — lost
A SMALL BLUE NOTEBOOK, the words "Sweetbriar — for keeping" on the cover. Lost between the post office and the bakery. I would very much like it back. There is a pressed lemon-balm leaf on page eleven that I cannot replace.
— Reward: a bottle, once I finish brewing it.
· Announcements ·
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№ 0422 — announcement
SWEETBRIAR BOTTLING CO. EMPLOYEES, 1962–1978 — a reunion is in the works. Pearl Mahoney is organizing. She has the list. Call her at home, evenings, after the news. She would love to hear from you, and so would the rest of us.
— On behalf of the Believers.
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№ 0423 — public service
SWEETBRIAR WAS REAL. We have not forgotten. We will not let it become a rumor.
— The Back Page, with affection.
— were we able to print one this week, here is what the picture would show —
A tall pale-green bottle, sweating cold on a kitchen table beside an open window. The cap is gold, embossed with a small smiling bee. The light is the kind of late-afternoon light that turns dust into a slow snow. Half a Meyer lemon sits on a saucer, cut-side up. A child's hand, barely in frame, is reaching for the glass. Through the window: a clothesline, two pillowcases, one robin.
— printers' apologies; we will save up for the photograph next week —
tap any notice to keep it, and it will keep you back.