A senior’s observations, opinions and rantings
Senior Moments
To say I have an addiction may be too strong a term, plus it has such a negative connotation. A passion or a weakness might be more accurate.
What I am talking about is ice cream.
My wife learned early on about my proclivity for consuming this sweet, creamy concoction of pleasure when I brought home a half gallon of Breyer’s ice cream. After a few days I heard the freezer door open and close and she asked, “Where is the ice cream we just bought?” I gave her the look of a puppy who just ate her new Christian Louboutin shoes.
“I didn’t even have any,” she said.
In a feeble effort to defend myself, I replied, “Well, it was there for you any time you wanted.” Needless to say, no more ice cream came into the home except for special occasions, when we had guests over and there was pie and ice cream for dessert… just a little ice cream.
But for every weakness, there is an enabler.
One day, long ago, we were driving down Tilton Road in Northfield and my wife asked if we could stop for ice cream. Not sure if this was some kind of sick joke or a test, I slowly nodded my head and pulled into the parking lot of the ice cream stand. I suggested we share a cone. She got out of the car and returned with a banana split.
I was quivering. That banana split was life-changing and as we drove home, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach, all was right with the world.
That was the last ice-cream experience we shared until this week.
I purposely avoid the ice cream aisle in the supermarket, but I was left unattended for a few minutes and wandered into the Forbidden Zone. I stopped in front of the Klondike Ice Cream bars and memories flooded back to me. Shoppers must have been puzzled seeing a man just standing there, gazing into the freezer. Allow me to explain.
When my mom was in her early 80s, her Type 2 diabetes could not be managed anymore without insulin injections, but because of neuropathy in her fingers, she couldn’t manipulate the syringe and needed assistance. This was the start of my lunchtime visits every day for years to administer the insulin shot to her.
What began as a chore turned into a gift. We shared an hour every day together. I would give her the injection, and she would give me half a sandwich and half a Klondike Bar. She would allow herself the other half.
Occasionally she would call me and ask if I could take her to ShopRite because eggs and Klondike Bars were on sale, so I would take those couple of hours and use my gas so she could save 80 cents on eggs and a dollar on Klondike Bars. Having those couple of hours was well worth it.
Years went by and my mom was no longer here, but I would still buy Klondike Bars. When our son would come over he would say, “Dad, why is there always half a Klondike Bar in the freezer?”
As I forced a smile, I replied, “Son, how come when you leave there is not a half a Klondike Bar in the freezer anymore?”
Recently, my wife and I were checking out at ShopRite. While putting our groceries on the belt, she spotted a box of Klondike Bars. She looked up and asked, “What are these?”
I sheepishly replied, “They are on sale, two dollars off.”
She just smiled and nodded.
When we got home and unpacked everything, I took out a Klondike Bar, cut it in half and paused thoughtfully for a moment before putting the other half back in the freezer where it will remain.
Charles Eberson has been in the newspaper business for over 25 years. He has worked as a writer, advertising executive, circulation manager and photographer. His photography can be viewed at charles-eberson.fineartamerica.com
Photo credit: Klondikebar.com
