The rusty handle fit every hand.
The hand of my grandfather as he turned and churned the milky richness inside.
The hand of my uncle as he packed ice and salt in the open space between the wooden slats and the metal cylinder, then taking over the chore and pleasure of the cranking.
The hand of my father as he impishly pushed his brother-in-law from the crank so he too could take credit for blending the anticipated delight.
The hands of my cousins, brother, sister and me struggling with joyous giggles, layering hand on top of hand to create the strength to turn the crank. Taking turns, we sat on the blanket covered throne watching the melting ice turn to cloudy salt water running down the side.
And then, when all capacity to budge the handle even one more turn became impossible, my grandmother’s bony hands pulled the frosted silver chamber from the bucket, opening it to reveal the deliciousness of my childhood.
Pennie’s Life Lesson:
“The simplicity of life becomes
the boldest of memories.”
My intent in sharing this with you is to spur a memory. What do you remember about past summers?
Share your thoughts and experiences relating to this post in a comment below .
And please feel free to email me at: PennieHunt@gmail.com.
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