Grandpa Ice Cream
All through grade school, summers were spent in Montana with my grandparents. I loved both of my grandparents equally, but I had a very special bond with my grandfather untouchable by anyone else. He was my jungle gym; I was his court jester. He was my encyclopedia; I was his sounding board. For three months out of the year, he grew a new shadow and I sat on the pedestal he built for me.
Our favorite activity was eating ice cream together. At least twice a week, we'd pile into his land yacht, a mid-70s white Plymouth sedan, to make the journey. The dogs would bounce around the backseat; Nipper, the rat terrier slipping and sliding back and forth across the slick green vinyl. Tilly, the pound proud mutt, would lay on the floor staring at him, her shaggy raised eyebrows asking "Where's your dignity?"??
Grandpa would sing as he drove, his scratchy baritone voice filling the car. He'd sing about me, ice cream, and me eating ice cream. Our ice cream parlor of choice was called Flavor Time and this was particularly inspiring to my Grandfather. 'Flavor Time, Flavor Time! Where the ice cream sure is fine!' Inevitably, he'd start singing one of his favorites and Nipper would whine along with him. 'You're the tops! You're the coliseum! You're the tops! You're the Louvre Museum!' I'd blush and wriggle further down into my seat and glow in the attention. It was a shock, years later, when I discovered that Cole Porter was the lyrical genius behind 'You're The Tops' and not my grandfather.
We would always order the exact same thing, every time: mint chocolate chip in a cup for me, and a chocolate malted for him. Although the order was predestined, I would always sit and stare at the menu, carefully considering my options. Weighing the clear merits of double chocolate chunk verses the exotic-but-disgusting-sounding rum raisin. Considering, just once, taking the decadent route and getting a banana split. My grandfather would always wait patiently for me, gently flirting with the old woman manning the drive-thru window. The same beaming attention and rumbling chuckle that made me feel like the center of the world also worked wonders on most women he met. It was a good thing both my grandparents were incorrigible flirts and there was never any jealousy or misunderstandings.
These summer days blend into my memory and I am not able to distinguish year from year. We loved our routines: buying loaves and loaves of freshly baked bread just to feed the ever-hungry ducks by the pond; driving alongside the river to have my grandfather ask me, every time, 'Now, is this the Sun or Missouri River?'; taking the dogs for the morning walk, down the alley and around the playground; inspecting his garden and wondering aloud if he should bother with it next year. And ice cream, always ice cream.
When I was fourteen or fifteen, I began finding the routine pointless and boring. There was no joy to be found in feeding the ducks, again. The dogs were getting old and Nipper had to be physically lifted into the backseat if he was to join us on our drives. Flavor Time closed and no other ice cream parlor in town made mint chocolate chip quite as well. And the relationship between my grandfather and I was changing too. My grandfather didn't know how to relate to a granddaughter who was more interested in boys than in old stories and old traditions. I wanted friends my own age, with my own interests. I would leave my grandfather alone in his garden while I wandered circles around the tiny local mall.Â
I finally dealt our friendship the deathblow during one of ice cream runs when I hunched down into the passenger seat and whined, 'Grandpa, why do you always have to sing?' There was a car filled with twenty-something air force men idling next to us at the light, and I couldn't bare the embarrassment of them thinking I was some child. I was a child, of course, but in my mind's eye I was beautiful, wise, and worldly.
It's no surprise that teenagers can be unspeakably and unknowingly cruel. My grandfather stopped singing then and he never sang another song for me again. Everything changed, not entirely due to my thoughtless question, but because I had become the sort of person who could ask it. I wasn't the little girl he showed off and he wasn't the old man I worshiped.
As years passed and I grew up in age and in wisdom, I attempted to rekindle our bond. 'Hey Gramps,' I'd ask, visiting from college one weekend. 'Why don't we go out and grab some ice cream?' My grandfather grunted noncommittally and turned back to the World War II documentary playing on the Discovery Channel. The dogs have both passed away years ago and my grandfather covered the garden with grass. I settled into the couch across from him; we weren't talking, we weren't interacting at all, but I reminded myself that we were still spending time together. No matter what I do or say now, how I try to recreate the past, the gap is still there. I'm not a confusing fifteen-year old anymore, newly interested in boys; instead, I'm an unfathomable twenty-four year old, living in New York City and moving in with a man. All I can do now is enjoy the time we do spend together as best as I can and look back fondly on mint chocolate chip ice cream from Flavor Time
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Bryce Weinert
Bryce is a screenwriter, playwright, sketch comedienne, and constant commentator on the world around her. Her work has been seen most recently in the Six Figures New Artist Festival Play Festival. Her most recent script is eagerly awaiting the attentions of an agent, producer, or generous multi-billionaire with a will to write.
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