Toast to a childhood friend

Going to a baby shower is not being truant from life. A baby shower is REAL LIFE. So I'm not going to post about the shower I went to today (although if I did it would definitely include a remark on the tendencies of post-menopausal women to evaluate breast pumps in loud voices).

But you see, the baby shower was for a girl named Emma, someone I've known for a helluva long time. She and I have eluded responsibility, questioned normalcy, and yearned for adventure together. Soo I think a little toast to memory is called for *clink.*

Last week, she and I and her sisters went to Shaker’s, an ice cream spot in our neighborhood.

As we were eating, Emma told the story of the first time we went there together -- something I haven't thought of in so long.

(prepare for semi-long anecdote regarding misfit child and ice cream mishap. skip anecdote to get to pictures if begin to feel drowsy from length and boringness of anecdote.)

The first time I went to Shaker’s, I was eight years old and on a visit to my new friend Emma’s house. Emma is the youngest daughter of a family who were notorious in our church for being very conservative. My parents were nothing compared to them. The Harrison’s parents were very strict, no television or modern music was allowed, the family rosary was prayed every day no fail, and in general the four daughters were held up as paragons of the good traditional Catholic girl – very modestly dressed, dissembling, respectful, quiet, and domestic. “Don’t say that around her– she’s a “Harrison girl,” became a common caution.

I was not like this. My parents were strict compared to the public-school standard (no television, no pants or shorts, no boys), but I just wasn’t that kind of kid. Emma and my other classmates were the kind of girls with strait tractable hair that always seems to fall right, clothes that seem to be newly pressed no matter the humidity, and the ability to never get caught talking.

I, on the other hand, was frequently late, had an irrepressible giggle whose timing unfailingly coincided with moments of solemn silence, and I always seemed to be forgetting something – my tie, my homework, my hair band. My shirt was possessed with a demonic determination to free itself from my jumper, and my Peter-Pan collar was usually sticking straight up by noon. My ruler would mysteriously disappear, I would run out of paper, and the teacher, Sister Mary Thomas, always noticed on the ONE day when I wore mismatching socks. All in all, I was not a very “together” little girl.

So, anyway, Emma and I got to know each other despite her being a Harrison girl. We began spending time together during lunch (hers was always a lunchmeat sandwich cut diagonally, and an apple. Mine usually contained something warm-able and with sauce, which I inevitably spilled). We talked about topics like movies (which, “of course, my parents cut the bad parts out of”) and our school work and had pretty much become friends.

So, I was to visit her house for the first time, and was pretty excited. All went well until her mother offered to take us, Emma, her sister, and me, to Shaker’s. I had never been there before, but I was not going to question anything.

We pulled up in the drive-thru and Emma and Mary both ordered a small turtle sundae, which, as I noticed from my window in the back, were $2.19 each. Doing some quick thinking, I decided that I would get a large ice cream, which was $1.75. This was cheaper than what they were getting, I reasoned, so it would be okay.

As you might guess, I wasn't aware that I probably should've just gotten the same thing as Emma and her sister. It wasn’t until many years later that I noticed prudent child-sized guests giving that tactful default “I’ll have the same.”

So, anyways, Shaker’s “small” is a large, and their large is…well… it was approximately a foot tall. I kid you not. If you find yourself in Metro-Detroit, make a stop at 12 Mile and John R. and you’ll see. I eyed it with horror, but determined to do my duty and eat it all.

Of course, I couldn’t, and that night while the rest of the Harrisons ate dessert, I kept my eyes down and worked on my refrozen cone, thoroughly mortified at my own extravagance.

Anyways, I licked my small cone and laughed as Emma told the story and ate her turtle sundae.

One more toast *clink, clink.* I'd like to toast my park.

Emma and I used to visit this park by our house. We would sit on the swings, with or without ice cream, and make silly plans. I revisited the park and was amazed that it was, well, just a little park.

The park used to be a kingdom

A haunted forest

A dare
With fleeting glimpses of eternity But now it was just a park. And the ice cream was just ice cream.

It’s surreal that Emma is married (married!) and having a kid, and I’m moving away. And that’s it’s been over a decade since we started that tradition.

Now, though, the sun is still shining and the ice cream is still creamy. I guess change comes to everyone, even to little eight-year-old girls who wear ponytails and navy jumpers and never think it will.