A hot summer day, the Jersey shore, and homemade ice cream; it doesn’t get much better than that. They’re like a high-speed memory trigger back to a time when life was carefree and simple. Recently, those memories were revived when I visited my cousin in Ocean City. Because he and I were raised about a block apart from one another in Philadelphia and our families spent a lot of time together, he’s the closest thing I have to a big brother. A small part of me always feels like that little kid when we’re together. Add to that the season, the setting, and the announcement that happy hour would be at 4 p.m. at the best homemade ice cream place in the world, and I’m somewhere around age ten. This is a good day.
Unlike when we were kids, we can see over the counter, have our own money, and can order whatever we want. My cousin has honed this adult power into an art form because the unassuming nirvana on the corner that he visits every day has become his Cheers. The owner and manager know his name. His personal dish—a stainless steel dog food bowl—is nestled on a shelf among boxes of cones and parfait dishes. If the kid behind the counter is a rookie, the manager gives an immediate in-service on how to fill my cousin’s order, because she already knows what it will be. Weigh the bowl, add sixteen ounces of Swiss chocolate almond and charge a flat rate of $5. The servers eye him up as they would a legend. “Oh, he’s the big bowl guy!” I feel like a groupie in the presence of an ice-cream rock star. Pretty exciting stuff for a ten-year-old.
Once I recover from witnessing the serving ritual, I order my own single scoop in a waffle cone (Swiss chocolate almond, of course, because my cousin has to be on to something) and I plop myself right next to him at the table. He’s told me this is the highlight of his day so I want to see his pleasure. I want to bask in the feeling of enjoying a decadent treat before dinner. I want to feel ten as long as I can.
The fantasy is interrupted when I see my cousin’s hand shaking as he brings the spoon to his mouth. It’s a problem that’s cropped up recently and is yet to have a name. Like most of us who make it to our sixties, he hasn’t arrived here unscathed. His genetic makeup has wreaked havoc on the stability of his life and it’s taken a toll. The jury is still out on what the final tally may be. When I look at his aging face, I see the story of his life and there’s no way I can hold on to the joyful image that he’s fourteen, I’m ten, and life is carefree and simple.
I wish fate had dealt him a better hand. I wish I could promise him there’ll be smooth sailing from here on out. But I can’t. Then I realize this harsh reality doesn’t have to ruin the moment. There’s no denying that we all get frayed and beaten up along the way, but he and I are still here and part of one another’s lives. It’s summer. We’re at the shore and we’re sitting side by side enjoying something that still manages to give him pleasure. Being ten for a little while was great, but being in the present isn’t bad either. This is a good day.
