Cranking out ice cream

August evenings here where we’re camped in north central Washington tend to be warm. Not hot and sweaty like East Texas and not sweatshirtish like in Northwest Pennsylvania. August evenings here are warm, mostly dry and generally breezy.

Sitting outside, watching night fall, invariably takes me back to summer evenings at my maternal grandparents’ place, out in the woods, beside an oil-topped road sorta between Kilgore and Henderson.

Uncle Jimmy — Mom’s brother — and his freckled wife Shirley and their kids were mostly around. They lived a half-mile or so down the road… close enough to walk, but they drove — in a rough cedar-sided house.

Mom and Shirley and Grandmother would mix up the ingredients and pour the mixture into the shiny steel bucket and deliver it to the backyard. There, under the low-hanging limbs of the catalpa tree, Dad and the others had the ice, the box of salt, the towels and the ice cream freezer. Centering the bucket in the wooden tub, they packed ice and salt around the bucket, positioned the crank and layered towels on top.

With Mom and Grandmother inside and cleaning up after dinner, Uncle Jim and Shirley smoked their Kools and Dad worked a sweet-smelling bowl of pipe tobacco, taking turns at the crank while we — the kids — perched on the towels, anchoring the whole contraption while the ice cream slowly stiffened in the bucket.

Finally, after Grandad had a last turn at the crank, it was done. The crank and towels were lifted off, bowls passed around, ice creamed spooned into the bowls. We sat on the ground or in webbed lawn chairs under the catalpa, savoring the cold creaminess and knowing we had a part in it.

It was summer, the sky was darkening, we were all-day sweaty, family surrounded us and the ice cream was perfect. Heck, at that moment in those days, it was all perfect.