|Photograph by Stan Williams|
It's Memorial Day, and ice cream season is officially upon us!
When I was a kid, a frozen treat was a reward for good behavior, acted as a lure to do something unpleasant or served as a central part of a celebration. It was around Memorial Day when we started having homemade ice cream. During summertime holidays, my Grandma Churchill's house was usually packed with aunts, uncles and cousins, so it took two ice cream machines to feed the crew -- one that was an old hand-crank model and the other that ran on an electric motor.
Back at home, my sister and I would save our change and ride our 10-speeds up to Zarda Dairy where we would get a soft serve cone. If we had extra coins, we might have it dipped in chocolate or splurge on a chocolate malt. Almost every day during the summer, an the ice cream truck jingled its way through the neighborhood, but the only thing I ever remember buying street-side was a red, white, and blue Bomb Pop.
There were trips to the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar and stops at the Dairy Dip, a soft-serve shop near my Grandma and Grandpa Williams home in Mulberry, Arkansas. There was even sliced ice-cream, a trick that thoroughly impressed my sister and me. Instead of scooping Neapolitan ice cream out of the box, our family friend Marilyn Broyles would open the carton completely, exposing a perfect, tri-colored cube ready to be cut into generous, colorful servings.
As summer drifted toward autumn and the beginning of school, it also meant it was time for our annual medical physicals. To sweeten the dreaded day, Mom treated us to a banana split at Baskin Robbins -- of course after the dreaded doctor's visit.
Happy Memorial Day!
Always Frugal, Always Fabulous,
The Elegant Thrifter