Mom always had a sixth sense about when Dad would want iced tea while working in the fields in summer.
She'd brew it up fresh, chill it, and add an entire tray of ice cubes, then put it in a canning jar with a screw-on lid. "Want to go with me to take Daddy iced tea?" she'd ask.
"Yes yes yes," I'd say, and we'd jump in the car and drive to whatever field he was in.
I'd carry the tea to him, ice cubes clinking, to the sound of Mom's shouted, "Don't trip and fall, honey!"
Dad would stop the tractor, take off his hat, and wipe the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. Then he'd swing me up onto the tractor seat so that I could pretend to drive (I loved to pretend to drive) while he and Mom talked.
When I cleaned out the house after they died, I found a yellowed note:
I'll be out in the field by the old ice house today. Pretty sure I'll need some iced tea about 4.