Summer Scoop

The other evening, after a round of mini-golf, we stopped for an ice cream cone.

The order was simple, but the distracted woman behind the counter, despite jotting down our choices, got it wrong.

Twice.

An employee at the other window, shaggy hair tangled and concealing his eyes, pushed open the screened window and rather than wiping down the sticky counter, flicked a damp chocolate chip with his thumb and finger, sending it airborne toward the feet of patrons.

I observed the slow-motion movements of the employees within the establishment. It was not too hard to see that no one was in charge. The bar was low and the customers few.

The entire scenario sparked a memory from long ago.

1990 to be exact.

A summer spent scooping ice cream…and learning from the best.

***

College was three months away and I needed a summer job.

A high school friend, arms weighted with textbooks, sashayed to my locker on the last day of classes, her eyes bright.

Kristin! Guess what?

What? I said.

The ice cream stand is hiring. Let’s apply!

So we did.

This ice cream farmstand was wildly popular: offering the most delicious ice cream of all. In fact, customers drove for hours, braving agonizingly long lines, patiently enduring.

It was that worth it.

The woman in charge of the entire shebang was sixty-something Miss Kay…tall and imposing. Although she was forever smiling, I detected that she meant business. She conducted meetings from behind her expansive kitchen farm table, and my friend raised an eyebrow as she finished her interview and slipped out of Miss Kay’s kitchen.

It was my turn.

Miss Kay was running a tight ship, and I admired her candor and spunk. She spoke plainly and directly and offered me a job on the spot after clarifying the non-negotiables.

Number one: I expect you to be ten minutes early for every shift. Number two: You must pull your hair back. Number three: no chewing gum, and number four: I require my workers to memorize the orders.

She tapped her forehead.

Memorize them. No writing down anything. And remember to please smile at our guests.

I nodded, accepted the position, and thanked her, a touch sad that gum was prohibited. But rules were rules and Miss Kay was The Boss. I knew precisely what was expected.

Everyone did.

***

Day one of my new employment arrived. I thanked Miss Kay as she handed me a folded white apron and paired me up at the window with a girl who had been working at the farmstand for several summers. It was a hot, sunny day, and as the afternoon slipped by, the lines lengthened. More workers arrived, and soon we had all of the windows open for business.

The job was hard work, fast-paced, and fun.

We greeted each customer through a sliding screen window and memorized their orders, repeating every detail back to them in the pleasantest of tones. The orders went like this:

One strawberry sundae, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, no nuts, and one cherry.

One large peppermint stick on a sugar cone with jimmies, and an empty cup and spoon on the side.

One banana split with one scoop chocolate chip, one scoop heavenly hash, and one scoop pistachio. Please substitute the pineapple topping with extra strawberries. Whip cream plus marshmallow, double cherries, no nuts.

I am here to tell you that the human mind is quite capable of remembering details when required. Every single employee who desired to keep their job rose to Miss Kay’s mighty expectations. The bar was high and we stretched.

As workers, we also became fast friends, waltzing by each other, cones in hand fulfilling order after order, bending low at the waist, and reaching into the frigid coolers to scoop. Conversations we began with each other often took the entire night to finish, based on how often we collided at the freezers. With so many workers, I had at least six conversations going on any given day. We stitched our banter together by piecemeal, as the afternoons slipped into the night.

We served our customers both kindly and dutifully, counting back change properly (another one of Miss Kay’s firm requirements), thanking them with a grin as our tips fell, clinking into cardboard cups. We scooped and hummed with the radio playing overhead, our Tretorn sneakers tapping to the beat.

Whenever The Boys of Summer began playing overhead, (which was often), someone slipped off to turn up the volume. We laughed and scooped until Miss Kay hushed the music, saying: Pay attention everyone! The lines are nearing the street!

We hopped to it under her fiery stare, yet within the hour someone had cranked up the volume again.

Oh you guys, Miss Kay said, smiling and turning it back down. I do remember being young, but you need to stay on task. Don’t touch the volume again.

So we didn’t, quite grateful she did not turn it off altogether.

The hours cruised by unless it rained. Whenever the weather soured, we were stuck wiping down counters and mopping the concrete floors, folding aprons, or filling up napkin dispensers under Miss Kay’s watchful eye.

She suffered no fools, and as long as we were employed by her we were expected to be moving, never idle.

The place sparkled as we scrubbed, and soon the drawers were stuffed with clean aprons and bleached rags. As the sun poked out again the lines formed and we resumed scooping.

I remember the exquisite exhaustion I felt at the end of each shift; the satisfaction of serving customers wholeheartedly, of being fully present with each person. There were far fewer distractions in 1990–namely no smartphones–and we thus bonded as employees and friends because there was simply no other place to be. Social media was wonderfully non-existent, and no one cared what acquaintances were buying or eating or doing.

We did not even think in such a vein. Life was generously spent where your feet were planted, looking ahead rather than down, and we were all the richer for it.

The frustration, complacency, and distraction I now witness most everywhere, were nearly absent then. People seemed more patient, conversing without distraction, making strong eye contact, and remaining truly interested in the people around them. I do not remember more than a handful of disgruntled customers the entire summer.

Now the world is flooded with miserable people, folks scrolling, heads down, grumpy and bellyaching and depressed, feebly attempting to impress people they do not know with things that do not matter. Scrolling and posting and scrambling to build personal platforms, thirsty for accolades, hungry to be known, while consuming online fairy tales which result in loneliness and longing.

How sad to miss out on real life.

Also? There is now far less laughter.

***

One sweltering Saturday I had an encounter at the ice cream stand that made us laugh until we cried.

A fancy schmancy bus had dropped off a group of foreign customers, touring New England. Several well-dressed folks approached my window, and I greeted them with, What would you like to order today?

Four nanilla cone, the man said as his family nodded.

I returned with four vanilla cones and as they took a bite they frowned.

Nanilla cone, he repeated.

Those are vanilla, I said.

No. NANILLA, the man repeated with a scowl, and a bit more forcefully.

This went back and forth a few more times.

Finally, another worker whispered as he passed behind me: Maybe they are trying to say banana?

I nodded, and tossed the four vanilla cones, returning with banana ice cream.

Banana, I said with a smile. Not vanilla!

The man took a bite.

Yes, the man said smiling. Nanilla cone!

Mystery solved.

We laughed for days, even Miss Kay.

It became the summer’s running joke.

Nanilla.

***

I did not know it then, but Miss Kay was to become one of my lifelong teachers, gifting me wisdom, and common sense for the ages. She would never have tolerated the casual indifference, defiance, and lackadaisical vibe so common today.

Her high expectations provided a hospitable structure and unity amongst her employees. We never had to wonder what was required. Her leadership left a deep impression, ingraining solid methods I eventually endeavored to carry into my life’s work as a mother, a home educator, and a writer.

Clarity over confusion. High expectations. Explicit instructions. Personal responsibility. Pride in a job well done. Determination and perseverance over complacency. Commitment to honesty and good work. The importance of submitting to a boss. Striving to be a person of integrity: kind, strict, and fair. Learning to shelve personal preferences for the greater good. Operating in decent order. The joy of laughter.

And music tamed, rather than silenced.