Every five or six months
my father would bundle us up
and take us after hours
to my grandfather’s Rexall drugstore
on Electric Square.
Inside the dark store he’d let us loose
behind the soda fountain,
encouraging us to create any ice cream
concoction we wanted.
The only rule: if we made it
we had to eat it.
As the oldest of four
I always constructed
the most mammoth sundae.
Six giant scoops of ice cream,
a mix of vanilla, strawberry,
chocolate, and butter brickle.
Then the tongue-teasing syrups:
butterscotch, cherry, raspberry,
chocolate, strawberry,
peppermint, caramel,
Topped off with globs of whipped cream,
a fistful of crushed nuts,
and three maraschino cherries.
Maybe even a banana.
So magnificent, so delicious.
If we finished and were still hungry,
we’d simply make another.
Holy moly cajoley.
These were the most thrilling
moments of my youth.
My father was a stoical man,
born of Swedish Lutheranism
and hardly taken to extremes,
but he’d suffer uncharacteristic
lapses into hedonism,
and his offspring
were the fortunate beneficiaries.
