North
Louisiana summer hot
hot
on a Sunday afternoon, 4 p.m.,
and
we would walk the short block
to
the red-brick church, the open field
behind
it, to the prize all eyes
turned
to, the white-painted
cinder
block building for
the
lawn mowers, the mowers
removed
to make space for
the
tables of ice cream, homemade,
ice
cream swirling in ice and
hands
still turning the cranks and
pouring
the salt, with every flavor
that
could be imagined but I went
straight
to the vanilla, and we’d run
across
the open field behind
the
church, clutching our bowls
of
ice cream, hoping all the while
they
wouldn’t remember if we crept
back
into line for seconds.
This is another in the series of poems on growing up int he South, suggested by my friend Nancy Rosback.
This is another in the series of poems on growing up int he South, suggested by my friend Nancy Rosback.
That makes my mouth water. I'll have some peach, please.
ReplyDeleteVANILLA??? Oh, maybe chocolate would be a good choice, too. Or just about anything icy creamy. [Hope you had a LOT of fun, when your memory is pouring forth.]
ReplyDeleteThis awakens some tucked-away memories and now I am wishing I had some homemade ice cream!
ReplyDeleteReally enjoyed reading this, Glynn. When we were kids, we had an old hand-crank ice cream machine. It seemed to take forever to make and was gone in minutes. I never tasted anything as good as that ice cream until many years later in Italy when I tried the gelato in Rome.
ReplyDeleteSimply delightful! I could picture every savory moment and feel that summer heat.
ReplyDeleteBlessings!
Oh, they knew. That's why they made so much.
ReplyDeleteNew orleans has a unique culture. Much of the rest of the US is pretty homoginezed..
ReplyDeleteAfter I read sir David's comment, I done gone and forgot what I was going to say. That's a good one.
ReplyDeleteHappy cranking, eating, and sneaking back for 2nds.
Blessings.