Mostly Malarkey: We all scream for it
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. You'll recall that little jingle if you remember the good ol' days.
Your Ol' Editor has been on dozens of diets over the decades, lost hundreds of pounds (aggregate), but never went a day in his life when he didn't crave cookies and ice cream.
Cookies are easier to avoid than ice cream which is akin to eating peanuts, the OE can't stop with one bowl.
Friend Wife seldom buys it, because she knows it's forbidden, but on special occasions will bring home a container of sugar free, no fat, ersatz ice cream. Even that imitation product, which in no way compares to the real stuff, can be detected in the freezer by the OE as soon as the car rolls into the driveway. She marvels at the OE's ability to detect ice cream though the walls and insulation. Perhaps he could be trained to be a drug sniffing dog, if only it were ice cream.
One of our most pleasant memories of Grandpa Jones was the day he opened his chamois coin purse, twisted the handle open and handed over a nickel. "Here, son, buy yourself an ice cream cone."
One of the horrible moments of life was during the day an eight-year-old purchased a double dip cone and stumbled on the street while running toward the car. The ice cream was gone and so was the nickel. I'll never mourn more than at that moment.
Mom would make "crank ice cream" in the White Mountain freezer. I gladly chopped and packed the ice as well as cranked the freezer; knowing what lay ahead.
Uncle Skeet and Aunt Callie, when I was with them several months at Independence, would go to the ice cream parlor each evening where we'd all enjoy cones. Triple dip was a dime and you could mix flavors. Those are my best recollections of the town where William Inge grew up.
When this teenage soldier from Kansas marched overseas to war, a dollar bill was tucked away and carried through combat. Like a lucky piece, that buck was supposed to get me back to the USA in one piece. And, if it did, the mission was to buy and consume a full dollar's worth of ice cream at the first opportunity.
We landed in New York with fire boats and a WAC band reception. It was immense, but didn't compare to the dollar's worth of ice cream in Hoboken.
After moving to Marion, where Wolf's ice cream was manufactured, our taste ran to that high butterfat product. It was almost sinful joy as it piled on the pounds.
Listening the car radio recently, the announcer was heard to say that double dips of ice cream were bargain priced at $1.79. Maybe so, but it can't compare to products of the past.
— BILL MEYER
