Within Close Range: Ice Cream and Convertibles
“Who wants ice cream?”
comes the call from below.
Just behind Dad, I’m first to the car.
quickly taking possession of the coveted front seat
when Mom chooses a quiet hour’s retreat.
Off we go,
past the last of the day’s golfers
crossing the final, shadowed fairway.
Rolling along at country club speed,
I look to the trees heavy with green
and suck in the waning day,
the moist lake air,
and the strong, sweet aroma of fresh cut grass
and wild, roadside onions.
Once we have passed
the crustiest of the upper class,
Dad presses on the gas
and summer is now whizzing past
with me behind a veil of windblown hair.
It’s a straight shot to ice cream,
twenty minutes to 31 flavors
in an old, brick, corner building.
Following the train tracks all the way to town,
passing The Lantern
and the best burgers in town;
passing Market Square
where in the late summer twilight,
half the town is milling about the fountain.
Behind the brightly illuminated windows,
the ice cream shop is crowded.
which means more time
to peak between the people
at the colorful, ice-cold delights:
Rocky Road
Mint Chocolate Chip
Bubble Gum
Too many for me to choose from
and greedy for more,
I’m allowed to order the Banana Royale
with hot fudge and chopped nuts,
topped with whipped cream
a bright red Maraschino cherry
and a raised eyebrow from Dad.
Loath to re-admit offspring
with fast melting ice cream
into his always pristine car,
Dad leads us all toward Market Square
where we admire the stores from a drippy distance.
Scanning the dimmed display cabinets
and shiny glass countertops
of Marshall Field’s Department store
makes me think about the deliciousness of Frango Mints,
and the distinctiveness of the peculiar, old lady
from the first floor makeup department,
who looks as if she’s been there forever.
She fascinates me.
Always dressed in black,
which perfectly matches her jet-black bob,
accentuated with a precisely penciled-in,
black as pitch,
widow’s peak.
A steadfast fancy from her flapper days?
Her happy days?
Past the old rec center and the stationary store,
I pause at the window of Kiddle’s
to dig at the fudge from the bottom of my bowl
and marvel at the bicycles and basketballs,
the helmets, t-shirts, bats and rackets
covering every inch of wall from its old, wooden floor
to its elaborate, tin ceiling.
From here, I set my sights on Market Square Bakery.
On the same old, dusty display cakes
sitting in the same, old dusty display windows.
Knowing well what glorious, sugary delights
will soon be baking on the other side of the “Closed” sign,
making Mom’s after-school errands bearable.
Constatntly scanning the sidewalks
and the square’s grassy center
for a friend among the small crowds
gathered around the fountain and benches,
relishing the cool of the evening.
Delighted by the sight of any familiar face
and the feeling of community.
Intimacy.
So I make my Banana Royale last.
Savoring every moment in every bite
as we round the square and pass a real estate office
where lighted photos of formidable houses
make window-shoppers dream…
big.
As the last of the ice cream disappears,
and the last corner of the square is near,
I know we’re almost back at the car,
but not until we pass my very favorite spot –
Pasquesi’s, now dark and quiet.
Inside, there’s a bell on its door
that signals Mr. P. to look up from the back
of his simple, splendid, tiny purple lunch counter,
as he offers up the best and sloppiest of Sloppy Joe’s,
the cheesiest of cheese dogs,
and the warmest of smiles.
Greeting all as if long lost friends
finally coming home.
Always making me feel that I belong.
Back at the car
and forced to relinquish the front seat
to a sibling demanding their turn,
I lower myself from the cool, night air
and, in the quiet of an ice cream coma,
count the streetlights passing above,
until the stars and the dark replace them,
the crickets’ song grows strong,
and my eyes grow heavy.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 