a literary criticism: My Papa's Waltz

Theodore Roethke’s “My Papa’s Waltz” describes the unique relationship between Roethke and his father. Theirs is a relationship combining love and fear—a young boy loves and longs for the approval of his father, but simultaneously cannot escape the harshness that is contained in his father’s love. “My Papa’s Waltz” is not about an innocent dance of a small child with his father, but neither is it an account of blatant child abuse. On the contrary, there is a careful line drawn between these two which is very much influenced by Roethke’s own childhood experiences.
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy (Roethke 451).
This first stanza contains several words with negative connotations, but the denotations of these words are not necessarily negative. The “whiskey on [his father’s] breath (ibid)” automatically raises suspicion because the link between alcohol and child abuse have recently become widely documented, but when the poem was written in 1948, the connection between these two was essentially unheard-of (Smith 4). At that time, to have a drink was considered completely normal, or perhaps even a sign of masculinity. Roethke couldn’t have possibly imagined writing to an audience that is conditioned to notice even the slightest signs of alcoholism. The whiskey is not what Roethke intended to use as negative in this stanza; instead, “dizzy (Roethke 451)” is intended to be negative. If the boy were made dizzy from dancing, then the word would have the playful meaning it usually has, but instead the dizziness is caused by the father’s breath, implying that the father must be very close to the boy’s face—perhaps yelling, or just speaking in a way that is intimidating.
Next, the word “death” is of course negative, but in the context of “[hanging] on like death (Roethke 451),” a negative connotation simply doesn’t make sense. If a person is scared of dying, then he will hang on “for dear life,” not “like death.” If a person hangs on “like death,” then it is a loose hold, probably relatively limp. A person hanging on “for death” is certainly not in fear of losing his life. The darker side enters with the word “such.” With the absence of the word “such,” the line “such dancing was not easy (Roethke 451)” loses its somber meaning. “Such” implies that Roethke and his father are not doing regular old dancing. This is a different kind of dancing—a more sinister kind of dancing that is rough and relatively frightening for the boy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself (Roethke 451).
Theodore Roethke grew up in Michigan, where his father and uncle owned a greenhouse business. Roethke worked alongside his father in the greenhouse from a young age, and for that reason had a very unique relationship with his father (ROSENTHAL 263). They enjoyed spending time together, but his father was often a bit “demanding, distant, and cold (Baechler 419).” The waltzing, according to the second stanza, is rowdy and rough. The father so roughly waltzes his son around the kitchen that pans slide off the shelf, and while the mother openly disapproves of the activity she does nothing to stop it. It seems that if the child were being abused, his mother would do something more than just frown.
Even though the mother doesn’t necessarily approve of the disruption of her kitchen, she also doesn’t want to disrupt the father-son bonding that the moment creates (Smith 3). The father has kind of a mixture of tenderness and brutality, and the boy Roethke is both joyful and afraid (ROSENTHAL 264). There might be some amount of apprehension in the mother’s mind, but not enough to make her stop what’s going on. Whatever tensions may be present, the central emotion in this poem is the love, however warped it may be, between the father and son (Baechler 419).
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle (Roethke 451).
The third stanza, without correct background information, is misleading as to Roethke’s intent. A hand that is “battered on one knuckle” probably implies that the person to whom the hand belongs is a tough and rowdy person, probably gets into fights fairly often and wouldn’t be opposed to occasionally beating his child or wife. For the average person, this stereotype is probably true, but that is not the case with this father, Otto Roethke. Otto Roethke was “a Prussian through and through (ROSENTHAL 264).” He was manly, strong, and firm. He worked hard every day in his very successful greenhouse business to provide for his family. He probably did have various bruises and scrapes, all from working outdoors. Theodore Roethke always viewed his father as “the man who made the flowers grow… the man who established law and enforced it (ROSENTHAL 264).” Otto Roethke was firm, certainly, but a child-beater he was not.
Theodore Roethke’s account of his “right ear [scraping] a buckle (Roethke 451)” is by no means proof of beating. Just about any person with a normal childhood can remember standing on the tops of his or her parent’s feet, who would then walk awkwardly around while the child clung to his parent’s hands or held fistfuls of his parent’s shirt. In such a position, the boy’s head would be waist-level, so that whenever the father “missed [a step](Roethke 451)” or lost his balance, the boy’s ear would “[scrape] a buckle” on his father’s belt(Smith 3). Although this moment of son waltzing with Papa is without a doubt a positive memory for Roethke, there is also something vaguely frightening about it. The whiskey breath, dizzying speed, the powerful father who cannot be criticized by the mother, and the noisy, beating “romp(Roethke 451)” of the waltz all combine to create an activity that is fun and exhilarating because it is somewhat frightening(Smith 4).
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt (Roethke 451).
The fourth and final stanza contains the lines that confirm for many the abusive nature of “My Papa’s Waltz,” as well as the lines that confirm for many its innocence. Many make the assertion that to place the word “beat” in a narrative involving a child without question implies beating the child. This cannot, however, be true because of the direct object “time.” Roethke’s father was beating time, keeping rhythm, and certainly not beating his son. To ignore an intentionally placed direct object is entirely absurd. The father’s hand “caked hard by dirt” only further reinforces the fact that Otto Roethke was a hard-working, responsible, good father who only wanted to enjoy a little time with his son before sending him off to bed. He doesn’t even take time to clean up because he wants to enjoy a few minutes with his son doing something really fun. It’s almost time for bed, so the father does everything he can to get his son riled up rather than calmed down for sleep (Smith 2).
The father’s tight hold on his son’s wrists is mirrored by the son “clinging to [the father’s] shirt (Roethke 451),” giving the image of a fatherly power than can’t be resisted, but also a child that doesn’t want to resist (Smith 5). The father’s power is kept in check by his desire to maintain an intimacy with his son. In the same way that whiskey on the father’s breath would have been unimportant in 1948, the fact that he “[waltzes his son] off to bed (Roethke 451)” is even more noticeable as an extraordinary moment of connection (Smith 5). After beating his child, a father might carry him off to bed, and after being beaten, a child might cling to his father’s shirt; however, these two would more than likely not both occur. Both actions signify an attachment, but in the case of an unhealthy relationship although both might be attached, only one person needs to give signs of such attachment. For these reasons it is clear the father and son have just had a very fun and loving, though perhaps a bit frightening, experience.
While there is no evidence in “My Papa’s Waltz” to suggest actual beating, there are many details that suggest a kind of danger and a hint of underlying violence (Smith 5). Otto Roethke was an honest but rough man, and his relationship with his son was both tender and frightening. While Theodore Roethke’s father would never intentionally harm him, he did have a sort of tough love, and Roethke had an appreciation for his father’s violent affection. “My Papa’s Waltz” is a fantastic poem that effectively shows the fine line between actual danger and exhilarating terror.

it's been two years today

If there’s one person in the world who ever truly loved me, it was my Grampa. He loved me, and I knew it. I never doubted it. He thought I was great, smart, beautiful, and he loved my hugs. He always told me that I gave the best hugs in the world, and he told me I was the prettiest girl he ever saw. Grampy once asked that, if reincarnation existed, if I would wait for him to come back and grow up so that he could marry me, because I was just so beautiful. I never doubted any of his compliments, because he had no reason to lie to me. My parents could compliment me, but I’d always think that they had to say those things because I was their daughter. And with other people, no matter how much I wanted to believe them, I’d always think they that had some ulterior motives for complimenting me. But Grampy? He had six children, 13 grandchildren, five great-grandchildren, and countless friends… what possible reason could he have for going out of his way to give me a big head? None. He really thought the world of me, and I really thought the world of him.
Even without the compliments that followed, I used to love to give him hugs. He thought that I was the greatest hugger ever, but the fact of the matter is that I learned from the best. His hugs were strong and lasted for a good twenty seconds. He’d squeeze, he’d kiss my cheek, and hold on tight. He was so strong. Even when he was old and weak, his hugs were still strong. He always smelled good, like soap and old man’s cologne… not exactly a smell I would expect to enjoy, so maybe it was just a good smell because it was his. Everything about that man was filled with love. His voice, his smile. When he’d see me walk in the door, or when he came to visit and he saw me, his eyes and smile would light up, he’d be so excited to see me. “Sarah!” I wish you could hear his voice. So strong, deep, and loving. Shaky towards the end, but still full of life and love. If he was sitting, he’d instantly get up and come over to give me a big strong hug. Towards the end it’d be difficult for him to get up, but he’d do it. He’d always get up to hug me.
Yeah, I believe in Heaven. He’s there. He was a man of faith, of great faith, and now I have faith that he is with Jesus. He’s happy. He doesn’t hurt anymore. His head may still be bald, but it’s not covered with band-aids from having cancer scraped off. He no longer has scabs peeling and bleeding from his constant excruciating treatments. He doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s rejoicing in Heaven over his Savior, who he loved in life and loves now. The One who made him capable of loving me so much. I saw him when he was dying. I saw him when he couldn’t get up anymore, when he couldn’t smile and say my name.
It’s been a couple years, but I cry about him still, on occasion. I don’t cry because he died, but because I don’t know if I can wait another fifty or sixty years until I see him again. He was an incredible man and I’m thankful every day for all the time that I did have to spend with him. He hurt so much, and I’m glad, with every piece of myself, that he’s happy now; and I look forward to the day when I’ll see him again.

You didn't really think this one through, did you?

On my way home from Starbucks today I saw a bumper sticker on a car that said:

If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you're reading this in English, thank a solider.

At first glance I thought "okay, it's just somebody who loves America and likes to show off their patriotism." But then... wait... "that doesn't even make sense! At ALL!" English has been the language of the world for longer than America has even been a huge power. The British Empire spread English all over the rest of Europe and into Asia and Africa hundreds of years ago. English is going to be what things are written in...almost no matter what.

The last time that the world... or, okay, let's focus on America... was in "danger" of POSSIBLY being taken over by another country that would have led to the speaking of another language was about 60-70 years ago. World War II. Hitler's Nazi Germany has been the ONLY attempt to take over the world in such a way that could have potentially decreased the speaking of English. And... Mr. Bumper Sticker... in case you didn't notice, most of the people who stopped that from happening are dead. That was a long time ago. The ones who are still living are VETERANS, not SOLDIERS. SOLDIERS are currently fighting in the Middle East, against people who have absolutely no interest in forcing us to speak another language.

There have been disputes in the USA about whether street signs should be in English and Spanish, for the ever-growing Spanish-speaking minority (soon to be majority), but that hasn't even happened. Street signs may be kept English, but a Spanish speaker can totally choose to put a Spanish bumper sticker on his or her car. So... man with the silly bumper sticker... if you want me to thank a soldier that your bumper sticker is in English, is it because without some soldier YOU would have been raised as a member of the minority in the US? Mr. WASP? Really?

To Circumcise or not to Circumcise- written Spring 2007

I’ve babysat and been a nanny for the past five or six years, so I’ve changed a lot of diapers and given a lot of baths in my day. It didn’t take me long to notice the difference in genitalia from baby boy to baby boy. Most are circumcised, but a substantial amount are not. Around the time that I noticed the physical difference and therefore realized what “circumcision” really is, I remembered all of the verses that I had read or learned in church or in Bible Class at the Christian school I went to- verses equating “the uncircumcised” with “the unholy.” I started, at a very young age, considering the options that I will one day have as a mother. To circumcise, or not to circumcise? Aside from the fact that God, in the Torah and the Bible, commands the Jewish People be circumcised (or the Muslim people in the Koran), what difference does it make, really?
There are very few people in the world who could make a logical case in favor of female circumcision, more commonly known as Female Genital Mutilation, but male circumcision was adopted into the world as a normal practice ages ago. When a baby boy is born, his parents decide his name, his place of residence, what he eats and drinks, what he wears, and whether or not he is circumcised. Circumcision goes back thousands of years to Ancient Egypt, and is typically an important part of the Jewish and Muslim faiths. In the United States in the early twentieth century, cleanliness became associated with wealth, and a circumcised penis was generally thought to be cleaner. At that time about twenty-five percent of men in the United States were circumcised. In the nineteen-thirties the military began requiring soldiers to be circumcised, and by the nineteen-forties and fifties, nearly all males in the United States were circumcised (Pantley).
If not for religious reasons or requirements for the military, the decision of whether or not to circumcise has often been based on what is considered “normal,” so that the boy will be like his father or like everyone else, to avoid embarrassment. In the mid-twentieth century, studies were commonly twisted to always show the positive elements of circumcision, and never the negative. Many parents thus circumcised their children for religious reasons, many for reasons based on skewed studies, and many parents circumcised their children because it was the normal, accepted thing to do. In recent decades, studies have shown pros and cons of infant circumcision, so now it is in the hands of the parents to decide which pros and which cons are most important. Thirty years ago, almost one-hundred percent of infant boys in the US were circumcised, but that number has decreased to only sixty percent, so favoritism of circumcision is clearly decreasing.
Historically, one of the largest arguments for circumcision was cleanliness. The foreskins of intact penises are susceptible to infections, and an eliminated foreskin will eliminate the problem. The other side of this argument is that simple hygiene just as easily eliminates the problem, and removing the foreskin is essentially expecting and accepting that the boy won’t grow up to have very high personal hygienic standards. It’s not hard to keep an intact penis clean; it just needs to be washed regularly, no different than any other body part.
Another argument in favor of circumcision is that uncircumcised men are three times more likely to get penile cancer than circumcised men (Natural Family Online), but this can easily be combated with studies that show the close relationship between penile cancer and sexual promiscuity. It is true that of the men with penile cancer, more are uncircumcised than circumcised, but most would never have been at risk for the disease if they had never engaged in promiscuous and unprotected activities. Many other diseases are like this, too; people are more susceptible to a disease because of something they can’t control, but the disease would never become an issue if they didn’t do something to prod it along. For example, my grandfather died of lung cancer caused by asbestos poisoning. It was a tragedy, but the asbestos never would have created cancer if my grandfather hadn’t willingly weakened his lungs by smoking cigarettes for many years.
A condition known as Phimosis is a rare but real reason for having a circumcision. When Phimosis is present it is impossible for the foreskin to retract, making infection of the foreskin extremely likely (MedicineNet). When Phimosis is present in an infant, a circumcision is performed and complications are usually avoided; however, when Phimosis happens as an adult, the circumcision procedure is much more painful and complications are much more likely. In the case of an adult who has developed Phimosis, perhaps his parents could be blamed for not circumcising him as an infant, but the condition is so uncommon that treating everyone for it as an infant would be overcautious at best.
Aside from the unlikely, there are no real medical reasons for removing the foreskin; and conversely, there are no real medical reasons not to remove the foreskin. Some parents choose not to have their sons circumcised because of the possibility of their sons retaining painful memories of their circumcisions, but modern medicine now allows for the use of painkillers. Claims have been made that the removal of the foreskin desensitizes the penis, making sexual activities less pleasurable, but studies have offered no proof of this. Some parents hesitate to make a life-changing decision without the consent of their infant, but circumcisions in later life can lead to complications, and making major decisions for an infant is the nature of parenthood.
With the millions of baby boys that are born daily, millions of decisions are constantly being made. To circumcise, or not to circumcise? I don’t know what I’ll do when I have kids. Thankfully, I have plenty of time to decide. Some parents should put more thought into a decision like whether or not to circumcise their son. Other parents should probably put less thought into it, since each option has both valid and invalid arguments. One thing’s for certain: I don’t want my son (in the locker-room setting) to be made fun of over something as insignificant as a foreskin (or lack thereof). Until the majority changes or ceases to matter, parents are probably going to keep having their sons circumcised… even if it makes no medical difference.

Flying with Julia Doten

Much of my initial intrigue with Julia Doten, her mother, and her daughter stemmed about ten years ago when I met her daughter Ripley, who has been my best friend for many years. I believe that the most common response to “Hi, my name is Ripley” is simply “really?” My best friend’s name is Ripley Elizabeth Doten. When I asked Ripley, at the age of eight, where her name came from, she replied “it was my grandmother’s name.” That didn’t make sense. As unusual as a name like that is, it would have been exceedingly more unusual sixty years ago. Eventually the truth came out that although her grandmother was called Ripley, it was actually her middle name, taken from her own mother’s maiden name.
In the 1960s there were a grand total of twelve women aviation instructors in all of New England, and Ripley Miller was one of them. “Mom never let anyone tell her what to do,” says Julia. Ripley balanced the tasks of raising a family, working as a pilot, promoting women in aviation, and being a leader in the International Organization of Women Pilots. Julia clearly inherited her mother’s ambitious nature, for she has accomplished a number of things, including becoming a published author. In her book A Long White Scarf, Julia recounts the story of her mother’s life, combining it with personal childhood memories. She tells a brief story about her last encounter with her mother, “she opened her top drawer, and gave me a small box which contained a charm for my charm bracelet, engraved with my birth date from nine days ago. She explained that it had taken her a while to find the right one, and then have it engraved. I think I hugged her. Then she left for work” (Doten 130). Julia and her mother didn’t say goodbye.
Ripley worked delivering cargo out of Boston, and that night she never came home. Her plane went down over Boston Harbor, but it was several days before the plane and Ripley were found (Doten 131). Because of the days of searching, Julia and her siblings never really got a period of mourning. They didn’t want to cry while there was still hope, and by the time the search was over too much time had already passed. Julia went back to high school and on with life.
Julia says that when she was a little girl, she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. Next she wanted to be an archeologist, and then an architect. In high school, Julia took lots of drafting classes, feeling safe following in the tracks of her father’s civil engineering business. When she finished high school, she went to work for an insurance company, which wasn’t too gripping or thrilling, but it was a job. After a few years, Julia went out and got her Pilot’s License, knowing that her mother would have taught her to fly, had she been able to. She also has worked for her father’s civil engineering business, designing parts of houses, and parts of different locations around her hometown of Wilmington, MA. She tells me that, whether out of fear or comfort, it always seemed easiest to follow in her parents’ footsteps (Doten, Julia).
While it may have been easier to do what her parents had done, Julia has managed quite a few of her own accomplishments. She modeled occasionally, and after getting married went to Northern Essex Community College to study business. She is now a published author. Modeling and writing were and are her own things, separate from her parents. She says that writing the book about her mother was therapeutic; it was a way of putting all of those memories in order, and a way of dealing with emotions that had been left unexamined.
I have been told again and again by the younger Ripley about her mother Julia’s constant need to know where she is, all the time. To an eighteen year old girl this can be irritating, but there are reasons for what seems to Ripley to be paranoia. Julia never got a chance to say goodbye to her mother, and on top of that, her mother was missing for several days. In the constant coming and going of daily life, telling your family where you’re going and saying “goodbye” every time you leave the house can easily become a nuisance, but to Julia it’s extremely important. “Just say goodbye before you leave,” is all Julia asks.
“I asked God to never again let someone important to me die without saying goodbye” says Julia. This must have been racing through her head this past September when her brother told her “Dad crashed his plane and it’s really bad” (Doten, Julia). Julia’s father, my best friend’s grandfather, like his wife also an accomplished pilot, had crashed his plane. Julia says that for her, when a crisis happens, the only things to do are believe that everything will be alright, and keep busy. This must come from being a mother, I think. You have to keep smiling, if only for the sake of your children. She was right in believing that everything would be okay; he is okay. Ken Miller, her father, is alive and getting better daily, thanks in no small part to the constant care and attention from his daughter, affectionately known by him as “Julie.”
Julia’s mother, Ripley, worked in a highly male-dominated profession, and according to Julia, would never let anyone tell her what she could or couldn’t do. Ripley’s daughter, Julia, has continued her mother’s tradition. She wanted to be on the cover of a magazine, and she did it. She wanted to be a mother, and she did it. She wanted to write a book, and she did it. Julia Doten. A daughter, a model, a student, a civil engineer, an author, and the mother of my best friend. Through her life, Julia has been many different things to many different people, but perhaps the most important thing to consider is this: what does Julia Doten think of herself? She says “I think of myself as an artist.” She may not be as quite an accomplished pilot as her parents, but Julia has flown, even soared with everything she has set her mind to. It is clear to me that, whether in parenting, modeling, engineering, or writing, Julia has always made an effort to create something beautiful, and she has thus far been extremely successful.

Ice Cream- written Spring 2006

When there’s one single thing that is at least two-thirds of what you eat, see, and think about, it is safe to say that that one thing is a large part of your life. Having something like this might not always be a good thing, but it certainly can be. For me, ice cream is that thing. It’s not uncommon for me to eat ice cream three meals a day, nor is it uncommon for me to end my day by scrubbing chocolate ice cream and hot fudge off of my body. I’ve been told a few times that I smell like dairy products.
You laugh, but I am serious. I was never really big on ice cream for the majority of my life, to be quite honest. I liked it, but only the occasional vanilla cone. None of these nuts, chocolate chips or ridiculous flavors. That is until I got my first job at a local ice cream stand. I thought it would just be like any other job. I’d work; I’d be tired; I’d go home; and a week later I’d get a pay check, which I would then use to buy food and CDs. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that ice cream would soon become one of my life’s greatest passions.
Let me give you the grand tour. In Freezer One we have the popular but interesting flavors. All the butters: Butterscotch, Butternut, Butter Almond. Then Mint Chocolate Chip and Mint Cookie. Cherry Chocolate Chip, Caramel Cashew Chip, Chocolate Almond, Chocolate Walnut, Frozen Pudding, Raspberry Chocolate Chip, Orange Pineapple, Banana, Pistachio Nut, and Peppermint Stick. Freezer Two contains the classics: several cans of Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, and Coffee, Maple Walnut, Mocha Almond, Heathbar, and Coffee Heathbar. Freezer Three holds the strange flavors, the new flavors, the experimental flavors, the yogurts, the sherbets, and the sorbets: Chocolate Chocolate Chunk, German Chocolate Fudge, Malted Moo Crunch, Malted Milk Ball, Pumpkin, Gingersnap Molasses, Heavenly Mash, Sugar-free Maple Walnut, Sugar-free Vanilla, Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Yogurt, Grasshopper Yogurt, Peanut Butter Fudge Ripple Yogurt, Raspberry Sherbet, Watermelon Sherbet, Lime Sorbet, and Strawberry-Kiwi Sorbet. Think that’s a lot of flavors? Keep in mind that my ice cream stand is only seasonal and only opened a few weeks ago, so without a doubt I’m forgetting a lot of flavors.
I sure hope you didn’t skim that list. It may have seemed repetitive and boring, but skipping over a flavor of ice cream is equivalent to skipping over a flavor of my life. Anyway, let me continue. The difference between Sherbet and Sorbet is interesting; while they are similar, both being fruity and lighter than ice cream, Sorbet is completely dairy-free. Sorbet can be eaten by people who simply like it, or by people who are lactose-intolerant. Diabetics or participants in the Atkins diet may think that they can’t eat ice cream, but this is not true. We have sugar-free ice cream! We also have low-fat and non-fat frozen yogurt, and unlike the yogurts at other places, ours actually tastes good. We truly have an ice cream for everyone. And for every ice cream there is a type of person. I’m typically not one for flavor stereotyping, but people do it to themselves. It has gotten to the point where quite often I see a person walking toward my window, and I can pinpoint exactly what flavor, size, and possible toppings they will get. Then they order, and I am satisfactorily correct.
Even the best and most exciting jobs usually have their dull moments, but that’s not the case at an ice cream stand. Scooping ice cream, I am never bored. When regular customers come, it’s exciting to watch and help them decide between their favorite flavors, and when new customers come in it’s fun to suggest flavors. When I make a suggestion, I’m always right. The person always loves it. I can tell what a person will like, at least after asking a few questions. I also love the challenge that ensues after having to say “I’m sorry, we’re all out of that today.” I either suggest a close substitute, or something completely different that I know the person will love.
Since everyone loves ice cream, I’ve come across a wide variety of people in my day. I get people from all over the world, and it’s so interesting trying to understand a flavor of ice cream that might be hard to pronounce, topped off with some foreign accent. An entire family once came to my window, and each person asked for “berry” ice cream, and it was up to me to figure out whether that meant Strawberry, Black Raspberry, Raspberry Chocolate Chip, or Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Yogurt. No matter the struggle of deciding on or understanding a flavor of ice cream, the smiles always come. Well, not always. A man once asked for “a small Buttercrunch in a cone.” I said “do you mind if I put it in a cup with a cone on top? The Buttercrunch is always very soft, and it will melt all over you if it’s in a cone.” He said “no, I want it in a cone.” So, I gave it to him in a cone, all drippy. Ten minutes later, he barged up to my window, covered in ice cream, demanding “this is ridiculous. I asked for my ice cream in a cone, not on my shirt.” I would have liked to have said “you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” but the customer is always right. I apologized and got him a new cone, this time with a cup as well. He walked off in an angry huff. Some people are just impossible to please.
The excitement of working at my ice cream stand doesn’t always come from the customers. Customers don’t always come, even in the summer, due to this thing known as precipitation. Whether it be rain or snow, wetness falling from the sky destroys people’s desire for ice cream. On one such day, my fellow scoopers and I found ourselves on the verge of boredom. We played cards, came up with a list of ridiculous alternate names for ice cream flavors, made action figures out of spoons, and the manager bought us all Chinese food. What’s better than wearing an apron and a baseball hat, eating ice cream and Lo Mein, and hanging out with your pals? Not much, I say.
The people I work with are wonderful, full of character, and are a constant source of hilarity. Frazer is everyone’s favorite. He’s about a hundred feet tall, and weighs about ten pounds. He trips over everything, is exceedingly personable, and has made close friends with a couple eighty-something year-old women who regularly come to get ice cream. “Fraz,” for short, is lovable and lanky. Then there’s Dave, who has been an employee for the past twelve years. He’s in his late twenties, graduated from an ivy-league college ages ago, and still lives with his parents. Most people in his position would be embarrassed to work with high school and young college students, but he thrives on teenage gossip. If you want to know the latest info, Dave’s the place to go. He gets the same thrill spreading rumors as a fourteen year-old girl. Next is Marsha, the day-time manager. She’s in her late fifties, and thrives off of cleanliness and order. It didn’t take me long to figure out that on Marsha’s shift, I’d better be scrubbing something at all times. All of the managers are middle-aged and have worked in the ice cream business for decades… except for Cindy. She was promoted to manager in her senior year of high school, and this was the cause of much controversy. She’s really nice, helpful, efficient, and knowledgeable about all things relevant to ice cream. I work with a wide variety of wonderful people; it would be near impossible to describe them all.
What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? Actually, let me tell you. Usually it’s not hard to tell. And if it’s not obvious, I can probably tell you a lot about your personality from simply knowing what ice cream you like. Undecided customers like to ask what my favorite flavor is, in hopes that it will be something they will like. I have no favorite flavor. I am a connoisseur. For every flavor there is a season, and for every season there is a flavor. Really, I like every flavor. During the summer my freezer is a mess. Container upon container of different ice cream flavors are stacked everywhere- with no reason or particular order. My parents and three brothers, although not quite as diverse in their ice cream taste as I, love it quite a bit as well, and the containers that I bring home turn into a free-for-all. When we have guests over for dinner, it is always interesting watching them choose the flavor or flavors of ice cream that they would like for dessert. I believe I recall a time that we were able to offer twelve different flavors to an unsuspecting guest, who of course was quite pleased, although perhaps a bit overwhelmed.
Working at an ice cream stand, in addition to encouraging my passion for ice cream, has also helped me to perfect many skills that are useful for life. I make pretty much the best Banana Split you will ever eat. And my frappes? Incredible. (That’s right, I said Frappe, not Milkshake. No, they’re not the same thing. A Milkshake doesn’t have any ice cream in it- it’s just flavored milk. We’re in New England.) Sundaes are delicious, but not as delicious as a Doubledae, a Banana Split, or a Special(a Banana Split without the banana), for the simple reason that in a Sundae you only get one flavor and one topping. A Doubledae includes two and two, and a Banana Split and Special three and three. Also, the larger portions tend to be more rewarding. After eating a disgustingly enormous amount of ice cream, you simply feel like you’ve done a good job.
What? You think ice cream is fattening? Nonsense. It’s all in how you do it. My boss has been working at that ice cream stand and eating ice cream like it’s nobody’s business for who knows how long, and she’s one of the thinnest and most attractive middle-aged women I know. In addition, I have not a single co-worker who is obese or even overweight. We all eat ice cream; the only difference is that we also live healthy lifestyles. Sure, there are overweight people who eat a lot of ice cream, but there are also overweight people who like to watch TV, and the television certainly didn’t increase their body fat.
I think everyone should eat ice cream. It makes you happy. I’ve seen more smiling faces while serving ice cream than I saw in Disneyland, and that’s supposed to be the most magical and happy place in the world. Ice cream is great. Every flavor is great, every topping is great. Ice cream has taught me about people, and has taught me in an enormous way to appreciate life and all its many flavors.

what's coming

I'm going to post a series of essays that have been written by me. They will have nothing to do with each other, some will be informative, some will be silly, some will be boring, probably. Enjoy.