Saturday, my Dear Professor and I met at the college for lunch. We have a regular date night. Yes, Virginia, even sixtysomethings go on dates. It is a wonderful time to get away from the distractions of every day living and speak to each other's hearts.
The college has two recently renovated dining halls, and this was my first visit since the redo. There were several different stations filled with all sorts of nutritious delicacies. I was very impressed.
On our way out, we passed by the (dun dun duh!) dessert station. Hey, it was a special occasion. We went for the ice cream cones.
As I gazed at that delicious dairy perfection, I couldn't help but think of our our eldest son, The Preacher, when he was little boy.
For our first 7 years of marriage, my Dear Professor and I lived in my hometown. His family lived almost a 5 hour drive south. My Mom and Dad (and Grandmother and Aunts)were more than happy to assume home court advantage with the grandkids.
(My Dear Professor, The Preacher, Dad)
Dad did a lot of driving in his work, and conveniently found himself in the neighborhood on a regular basis. Once The Preacher was old enough (two years), he and Dad would hang together at the nearby Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor. Dad loved to see The Preacher's head snap to attention as they turned the final corner and the ice cream store came into view. "IC, ic, ic!" the delighted two year old would squeal.
It made Dad's day. And mine too, watching an equivalent delight in my Dad's eyes as he told that story over and over again.
Dad and Mom are gone now, and that two year old is a father of three himself. My Dear Professor and I find ourselves the out of town grandparents. But that wonderful memory lingers on the mind as sweetly as the melting goodness of the ice cream lingers on my tongue.
So Dad, and my dear Son 1(aka The Preacher), this cone's for you.