My Memoir: ice cream
When I was a kid my grandparents and I would sit on the couch and watch television in the evenings. We had all kinds of favorites. Beverly Hillbillies, Andy Griffith, All in the Family, Hee-Haw, Happy Days, The Brady Bunch, The Rockford Files, The Partridge Family, Laverne & Shirley, you name it. Those were great times, even though we only had black and white. And over the air, so usually rabbit ears with enough tin foil hanging off them to wrap a decade’s worth of Thanksgiving leftovers.
Anyway, every once in awhile Grandmother would look over at me and say, “do you want some ice cream?” You have to understand that up until that moment the thought of ice cream hadn’t crossed my mind. But now that she mentioned it, ice cream sounded pretty good. (Okay, technically it was always the ugly bastard cousin of ice cream, ice milk. Still.)
“Yeah,” I said, brightening. “That sounds real good.”
“All right,” she said. “Will you get me some, too, while you’re up?”
That always struck me as being all kinds of unfair, and probably explains why to this day I’m more suspicious of people acting nice than is probably healthy for me.