Ice Cream Stops All Talking
The magic of ice cream, Courtesy of Frederick Douglass Opie
My dad loved soft serve ice cream which he called “custard.” Our family would load into the Rambler station wagon and head north to the base of Bear Mountain just outside of Peekskill for custard. This was the late 1960s early 1970s. My dad and his North Tarrytown family with roots in Cloverdale, Virginia were the only ones I knew who called soft serve ice cream custard. The ice cream stand at the base of the mountain sold vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, or a twist with vanilla and chocolate. When I close my eyes now I can see my brothers and I at 6, 7, and 12 furiously licking the ice cream cones covered in chocolate or multi-colored sprinkles. Nobody talked we just licked and licked tried to stay ahead of the dripping ice cream.