My dad always remembered every holiday. When I was a little girl, he would treat both my mom and me on Valentine's Day. Mom would get a big heart-shaped box of chocolates, which she had to share, and I would get a smaller box of chocolates all to myself. Sometimes he would have cards sent from Loveland, Colorado, with their special love stamp carefully affixed by hand.
With Valentine's Day ahead, I can't help but remember Dad. I may not have shown him how much I loved and appreciated him while he was alive, but now I'm grateful for that sweet memory of Valentine's Day.
No matter how old I get, ice cream always conjures up memories of childhood.
Butter pecan ice cream always reminds me of my dad. On hot summer afternoons we'd take a trip to Baskin Robbins to peruse their 31 flavors. Dad always got butter pecan in a sugar cone. Mom liked peach. I'd get something different nearly every time.
Black walnuts, especially in ice cream, always remind me of my grandparents. They lived in a very small town in Oklahoma. Black walnut trees were everywhere on their property. With nuts on the ground, the smell was intoxicating. My grandmother would have home-made ice cream loaded with black walnuts in the freezer when we arrived.
I picked up a carton of black walnut ice cream at the grocery store the other day. Last night my husband, who had never had this particular flavor before, dished up big bowls of this special treat after dinner while we watched television.
As I took that first bite I was flooded with memories of chasing fireflies and horny toads. I savored each mouthful and drifted back to my summer vacations in Oklahoma.
How I loved to sit on my grandfather's lap, the smell of pipe tobacco lingering around him, tiny burn holes in his shirt. He always had an entertaining story and called me Shuggie.
My grandmother would sit in her chair doing some sort of needlework. Knitting, crocheting, tatting, sewing, needlepoint, quilting, she did it all. Each piece expertly and patiently crafted with love; a beauty to behold. She made clothes for my Barbie dolls with all the intricate details of a designer label.
The family would gather around the big dining room table and play cards, usually Oh Hell!, which I always lost. My dad always called me Beetlebaum.*
I languished in childhood memories while I finished my ice cream. Playing in the local swimming hole. Picking and eating fresh strawberries until my fingers and lips were bright red. Walking to church in my shiny patent leather shoes, holding hands with my dad.
All this joy from a simple dish of ice cream. I am so grateful.
*Back in the 1940s, Spike Jones was known for his silly take-offs on many of the classics including the William Tell Overture. That particular recording was of an announcer at a horse race. After listing the line-up of horses, the last lagging horse in the field was announced as "Beetlebaum." The inflection and tone of voice must have made it hilarious. Apparently this stuck with my dad, who always called the player with the lowest score, usually me, Beetlebaum. I've caught myself using the same name on occasion. Amazing what you pick up from your parents.
This morning I woke up to fog and frost. The white crunchy grass reminded me of how much I loved walking on frosted grass when I was a kid. I'd look back and see footprints where the frost had melted as I stepped. It was a pleasant memory that I'm grateful to have had today.
"Reflect each day on all you have to be grateful for and you will receive more to be grateful for." ~~Chuck Danes
