The Day The Ice Cream Didn't Melt

Yesterday I mentioned several things I want to blog about, but I'm not going to write about any of those yet, because I remembered another thing that is on my list.

Over at My Ice Cream Diary, there is a contest going on. Post a story of a favorite food experience by February 28, and you will have a chance to win a gift certificate to an online candy store.

I definitely want to put in my bid, so here's my story.

Most summers our family likes to take a day to go to the Platte River. It flows from west to east across the midsection of Nebraska, headed for the Missouri River. Most of the year it runs slow and low; it's usually ankle to knee deep. In some places it's only a bed of sand, although they say when it's that dry the river still runs under the sand.

When the kids were much younger, we liked to go in late summer, when the river was only ankle deep, because it was like a giant wading pool. It was fun to play in-- you could splash, and build sand empires, and float-- with very little danger, which made it much more restful for mom and dad as lifeguards.

Usually on these excursions I'd pack up some sort of "snackage" as Hubby says, maybe sandwiches, or granola bars, or-- if we were feeling energetic-- a full campfire menu of hot dogs and marshmallows.

One year we'll always remember. It was a Sunday afternoon. We had gone to church in the morning, and there was no evening service, so right after Sunday dinner, we packed up our swim gear and our snackage, and a thermos of water, and headed out.

It took about an hour to drive to the little park that has river access. We swam, and played, and hiked around the river island, and got mosquito-bit, and sunburned, and tired. Close to sunset we decided we were ready to go home. By then we were hungry. I mean HUNGRY. The kind of hungry you get when you've been playing in the water for a long hot afternoon. There really ought to be a separate word for that kind of hungry. It's the kind of hungry that when I was a child made me eat a full-size candy bar and an entire 16 oz bottle of pop in one sitting, and then go eat a huge plateful of supper.

So there we were, with four of those kid-size outdoor appetites, which by nature are double the adult-size outdoor appetites-- and there were two of those. The snackage was long gone, and it was an hour drive till home. The kids were sure they would faint from hunger before we got there, or maybe start gnawing on the van curtains. And I wasn't sure but maybe I'd join them.

Hubby and I thought through our choices and tried to pull up mental maps of the countryside, asking ourselves, "Where's the nearest town?" Once we figured that out, we headed straight there in the hopes of finding something open. Because out here in the boodocks, there's no guarantee. I know in our tiny hometown, NOTHING is open on Sunday.

The first town we drove through had nothing(literally-- no grocery store or convenience store of any kind), so we drove on, a few miles out of our way, to a larger town. We drove around, and JACKPOT! A grocery store! And it was open!

Now, I don't know what you would have bought in that circumstance. From this perspective something tells me we should have bought bread and peanut butter. (Oh but then we would have needed something to spread peanut butter with. Okay, maybe we could have bought crackers and cheese.)

But for some reason, on that very hot day, after driving around in an un-airconditioned van, we headed straight for the ice cream section, and here's what we got:


(Of course, I don't remember if this was the actual brand we bought. Probably not, since it says "New England's Favorite" on it, and we don't live anywhere NEAR New England.)

But notice one little thing, there in the corner. Do you see it? It says "12 pack." We would have bought a box of six, but the store didn't have any, and we had our heart set on ice cream sandwiches. But that created a problem. Think. Six people. HOT August day. No air conditioning. A long drive. If we each ate one, that would still leave six in the box. How would we get the other six home?

We almost gave up the idea, but then Hubby had an inspiration.

The kids were electrified when Hubby and I climbed into the van with our booty, and announced, "You each HAVE to eat TWO of these! Before we get home!"

If there was ever rejoicing and thanksgiving and myriad sounds of hungry animals, it was then.

Because those were the days of hand-me-downs and thrift store shopping; when a family excursion was going to the library or to the river (we couldn't afford something you had to pay for.) Ice cream sandwiches were a once-a-summer treat, and even then, you only got HALF a sandwich, to make them last longer. (I'm serious: we cut them in half. That way, a box of six would go around twice.)

So on that day, to HAVE to eat TWO WHOLE ice cream sandwiches was unheard of luxury. It was paradise, or maybe heaven.

That was probably 15 years ago. But the kids still remember; it's one of our favorite family memories.

About Yesterday's Post

So what was that all about, you may be wondering.

Quite some time ago, I stumbled through a wave going over the blog world: writing a letter to your younger self, giving advice and encouragement to that person back then, knowing what you know now. I considered writing that, but I had no idea what I would tell myself. In some ways, I'm still that person, and I think I need my 70-year-old self to write me a letter.

But this weekend I found the Perfect Post Awards. If you want something good to read, go there. There are links to dozens of "perfect" posts, chosen every month since February 2006. It's like the cream of the bloggy crop.

There are stories like this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and even this one.

But the one that got me really thinking was this one. In particular, this paragraph:

He wants answers to why I’m so angry but it isn’t anger I’m feeling but resolve. I don’t want to do this anymore. How many times do we have to do this before we get it right? I have a feeling that it’s never. That is why I have to stop. It is unfair to my own family and much too difficult to be a good wife and mother from the depths of a black hole.

I could identify with this woman's assessment of having to distance herself from her family. Even though I didn't experience the levels of abuse that she did,  it was enough. My parents were not malicious, just mostly immature and wounded. There have been things I needed to forgive, things to learn about forgiveness (which may be a topic for a future post), but there did come a time when I realized I had to make a break from my parents. 

I had help. I married a man from a different state, and he carried me off into the sunset (literally). Fortunately, with my parents, out of sight is out of mind, and as long as I stayed out of their lives physically, they left me alone. It was a different story when I went back for a visit. The moment I showed up-- actually, the minute I told them I was coming-- the emotional entanglement started to strangle me. Hubby will tell you that for the first several years of our marriage I sobbed wrenchingly most of the four hour drive home.

All that to say this: after reading that post, suddenly, I knew just what my 17-year-old self needed to hear. And for some reason, it has been very encouraging to my 45-year-old self, as if I've gone back in time and knitted up a lost stitch.

And that's what that was all about.

Things I Would Like To Tell My Seventeen-Year-Old Self

Dear 17-year-old Self,

I have learned a lot in the nearly thirty years since I've seen you, and I want to share with you what I know about you now that I'm this far down the road.

First--

You're right. No one knows the answers to your questions-- but that's okay. That doesn't mean no one cares. Someday you'll find out that you are smart enough, intelligent enough, insightful enough, to figure out your own answers; and they'll be good answers.

You're doing fine. Breaking up with you-know-who is wise, and you'll never regret it.

You don't need the approval of a teacher to know you have done well. Besides, once you get out of school, there will be no more grades. You'll have to make up your own mind whether you did well or not. But it will be okay.

Not everything is your fault. Someday you'll learn how to not feel guilty for EVERYthing and it will be a huge relief. That day is coming, it really is.

You'll learn this later, but I wish you could understand it now: You don't have to parent your parents. That doesn't help your lost and alone feelings now, I know, but at least it would take some emotional weight off of you.

More people care about you than you think. They just don't know how to tell you, or what to do to show you. You don't know this yet, but some people have issues with your parents, and don't want to get too close because of it, but that doesn't mean they don't like YOU. Some of them are even praying for you, and helping you in ways you don't know.

On the other hand, fewer people care than you think, so don't worry what people are thinking about you. Just do what you want to do. Most people aren't paying attention and really don't care what you do. And the ones who make all the noise are just trying to get attention for themselves and don't REALLY care about YOU at all. So just go right ahead. Besides, the ones who really do care are rooting for you.

God loves you. You know that, sort of. What you don't realize is, He LIKES you. Really. He thinks you're cute and endearing, and he likes your individuality and who you are, 'cause He made you that way.

Also, God knows right where you are, and He's listening, and He's taking great pains to help you navigate your way through life. Believe it or not, even though you can't see it, you are going to end up in the right place. God sees your struggles, and your great determination to do well and make the right choices, and He is honoring that. Take courage. It will be well.

And. All those walks to school where you think you're talking to yourself? You know, since you have nobody else to talk to? God is listening. He says you're actually talking to HIm, and He loves it.

You are trying so hard. You want to do well, and be good, and make things right. You won't always succeed, because some of the things you feel responsible for, you really aren't. Someday you'll be able to let those things go. But in the meantime, just know that you're okay.

Another thing. It's okay to be sick once in a while. And it's okay to tell somebody, including, or maybe especially, your teachers. And it's okay to stay home and get better. Those attendance awards in grade school? Do not apply. Just do the best you can, and don't worry.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is You're doing fine. You're okay. And it's all going to be all right. Really. You can trust me.

Sincerely,
Your 45-year-old Self

A Story

Somehow in our conversations with MandoNut recently a story I wrote in 1994 came up. He was impressed with it and asked if he could use it as the basis for a song. Last night he and I worked on song lyrics, and this morning I thought maybe you all would like to read my story.

I wrote it for a contest, and the first bit, in italics, was the story-starter they gave us. The contestants had to fill in the rest from their own imaginations. This is my effort, and it won the contest in my age bracket. Pretty cool, I say; and I while I'm tempted to edit it now, I'm resisting. Plus, I do think I was inspired when I wrote it.

Mark was lying on a dolly, examining the damaged axle of a Pontiac Firebird wen he was startled by a sudden "Hello? Is anyone here?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Under the Firebird."

As he scooted out from under the car, the first thing he noticed was her shoes. They had 3-inch stiletto heels and were the blazing red of a summer sunset. The shoes matched her dress to perfection, as well as the fiery Porsche in the driveway. Mark shook his head and grinned to himself. That kinda style sure didn't hit this neighborhood very often, he thought.....

"I'm looking for Mark Watson," said the lady. "I was told he works here."

"Uh, yeah, that's me," Mark said, wiping his hands on a rag. He was curious, but he spoke casually. "Whatcha got-- carburetor trouble? transmission? brakes?"

"Um, no, it's not the car. I have some important business to discuss."

Mark looked at her more closely, and now he could see she looked younger than he had first thought-- much younger. It was amazing what clothes and make-up could do. Now he was really curious.

"If you're Mark Watson, I need to talk to you," the lady-girl said urgently.

Mark glanced around. The shop was empty. He was here alone this afternoon finishing up a couple jobs for Monday.

"Okay, have a seat." He waved her to a row of chairs they kept for the muffler-while-you-wait customers. The girl tossed her hair smartly and sat down.

"Pepsi?" he offered, fishing some quarters out of his pocket. He handed her a cold can, and she took it, fumbling shakily with the tab. He helped her open it and she took a swallow.

"I know about you and your wife Marie," she said abruptly.

Mark was surprised and wary. The girl looked down at her pop can, twisting it in her hands.

"I've heard you two want a baby. And... I have one to give you."

Mark sat stunned. Questions buzzed in his head like a swarm of gnats. "But--but... How?--"

She gestured impatiently. "It's all worked out. Daddy's a lawyer and he knows. You just have to sign the papers and have them notarized and he'll do the rest." She stood up.

"But--"

"I want to. You have to." The girl walked away, her heels staccatoing sharply on the concrete floor.

This is nuts, thought Mark. He paced distractedly, running one hand roughly through his hair, then both hands. Girls don't walk in from nowhere to give away babies. For one thing, babies don't grow on trees for the taking, or the giving. He and Marie sure knew that after trying for so long to get one, one way or another. It was especially hard for Marie, because she still remembered the baby she gave away.

The story reeled through his mind like an old movie: Marie at 16, pregnant, unmarried. It was still a vivid scar. Giving up the baby for adoption-- it was the best thing. But the baby, her baby, was gone. It might not have mattered so much, except it had turned out to be her only baby.

The clicking of the high heels returning brought Mark out of his thoughts. He turned.

"Here," said the girl breathlessly. She set down a baby carrier seat. "She's mine, but I want you and... Marie to have her."

Mark didn't move. The girl made an impatient sound and began quickly undoing the straps. She lifted out a pink flannel cocoon and handed it to him. "Take her," she commanded.

Mark obeyed. He looked down into a sweet sleeping face not more than a month or two old.

"The papers are in the diaper bag," the girl continued. "Her name is Ivy Marie." She paused uncertainly. "My name is Kimberly."

Mark stared at the baby in a swirl of emotion-- consternation, unbelief, hope, doubt. It just couldn't be. "Wait," he said. He heard a car door slam. "Wait!"

He ran-- carefully. But, with a flash of red the car drove away. Disconcerted, he stood helplessly.

In the end, he took the fragile bundle home to Marie, who was positively, unashamedly delighted, ecstatic. A Baby! At Last! It was providential. Who cared about the details?

Mark did, and he dubiously followed the typed instructions he found in the diaper bag. But it was all as the girl named Kimberly had claimed. Tiny Ivy Marie was theirs forever. And everyone said she looked just like Marie.

A week after the adoption was finalized, Mark was under a Chevy beating rust into his eyes. He shoved out to shake his head and he heard something.

"Mark! Mark!" It was Marie, holding Ivy Marie close and walking fast toward him. He was on his feet in a second.

"What's wrong? Is--?"

"No, no, the baby's fine-- but- I had to show you-" She handed him a sheet of paper. "A letter. Read it!" Her chin quavered and she began to weep.

Alarmed, Mark pulled her and baby Ivy Marie close and he read:

Dear Mother-I-never-knew,
Thank you for giving me the chance to have a home and family. I don't know if you would be proud of the way I'm turning out, I've made some mistakes, but that's not your fault. Thanks for at least giving me the chance to try. I know you'll care for my baby the way you would have cared for me if you could have.
Sincerely, Kimberly.