Different things will trigger my memory. A
couple of weeks ago, my wife, Zena, pointed out an ad from the local chain grocery store advertising ice cream, two half-gallons
for five dollars. Then, the next day she handed me a short grocery list and asked
if I’d mind picking up those few things. The list included two half-gallons
of diet vanilla and a gallon of two percent milk. Now, I sure wouldn’t
go broke if I bought the richer, more expensive brand of ice cream and the milk with a half-way decent amount of butterfat
in it, but I bought what she asked for.
Buying the diet vanilla ice cream took me back to a time when I was just a
little “shaver”, and my mother used to make ice cream. She’d get out the ice cream freezer---one of the
few modern conveniences we had on the farm. We didn’t have a refrigerator
or even an ice box, but we had an ice cream freezer. In order to be able to use
this fine appliance, however, we had to have ice. So, it figures, we could only
have ice cream in the winter time. Even so, it wasn’t exactly a regular
occurrence. Most always, though, the first time we’d have it each year
would be the Saturday following the first really bad freeze of the winter.
One thing I remember about it is that my sisters, Edie and Mary, would always
see to it that we had a fun time. They made a veritable production of it. Ice cream was not all there was to it. Oh
no! Edie was the “bestest” devil’s food cake baker there ever
was. Three layers and every layer covered with chocolate frosting. And Mary’s black walnut fudge…It was so rich and smooth, it melted in your mouth. (Between the fudge and the cake, I’m gaining weight just thinking about it.)
Anyway, in order to bring this thing off, there had to be ice brought up from
the pond.
Cutting the ice out of the pond was quite a trick. Naturally, the ice had to be frozen solid enough so it could withstand being walked on. When a nice, clean spot of ice was found, Lloyd or Charles would hack a small hole in the ice with a hatchet.
Then with a hand saw, they’d cut out blocks of ice about twelve inches
square. These would be put in a gunny sack to be carried to the house. After placing the sack on a flat hard surface, someone would crush the ice by hitting
it repeatedly with the flat side of an axe.
Mom was always the one to mix the ice cream. Now,
you notice I said ice cream. I didn’t
say ice milk, and for sure I didn’t say ice skim milk. She made ice cream.
I remember. She made it with cream, eggs, sugar and vanilla. I also remember her sometimes putting in a can of peaches. When
she made vanilla, she’d usually add a cupful of chopped walnuts, which we all shared in cracking. It sure was good.
After she poured the ice cream mixture into the can and put the beater inside,
she’d put the top on with its gears and crank. After one person would turn
the crank a couple of times to make sure the gears would mesh, someone else would start adding the ice. After about two or three inches of ice were added, then salt would have to be added. Then more ice, etc. Ice cream will not freeze if there isn’t
enough salt added to the ice. On at least one occasion, I remember Charles getting
the blame for forgetting the salt. The ice cream wouldn’t freeze. Once the oversight was discovered, however, salt was simply added and in no time —ice
cream!
As if ice cream, devil’s food cake and candy weren’t enough, the
chances were pretty good that the girls would make a big dishpan full of popcorn. Sometimes
the popcorn was saved until last, and we ate it as we sat around the table playing a card game called Rook. The rules of the game couldn’t have been very difficult to master because I was allowed to play,
too.
What I remember with the most pleasure was that everybody would be in a good
mood and enjoying themselves. We laughed and we talked to each other. Somehow, I can’t recall our doing that very often. How
sad.
After all this joyful family fraternizing, Dad would suggest that we “retire”
to the parlor and maybe Mom would entertain us by playing the old reed organ. Grandpa Todd had bought it for her when she
was just a little girl. All of us would stand around the organ with arms intertwined,
singing while Mom pumped and played. We sang right well, if I do say so.
Lloyd is the only one still singing—to amount to anything. But the old reed organ still plays beautifully. I know that
for a fact. It sits in my parlor, now.
