Boysenberry ice cream

Here's an essary I wrote in summer 1994. I found it among a bunch of my brother's pictures in my parents' house when I visited in October 2020.

College of Lake County, Summer 1994 semester, ENG 122, Tuesdays & Thursdays 7:00-9:45

When I was younger, around eight or so, I remember fondly how I would always visit my grandfather at work. During his breaks we’d visit the local convenience store and buy some snacks (usually ice cream, because that was our favorite). Some of the fondest memories of my grandfather are brought up by dishing out a bowl of the best of all treats – boysenberry ice cream.

My grandfather worked in a large warehouse as the only employee. Why he even worked there was a mystery to me; all he did was receive things and send them somewhere else. Why didn’t the shippers just send their boxes there in the first place? I suppose it doesn’t really matter; the point is that he had a lot of free time. The older, larger portion of the building had been standing for over a hundred years, and the concrete walls were a dark charcoal grey from the generations that had seen go by. Towards the back, in a corner secluded by the shelves and racks, lay the “men’s room.” (My sister had to go to the next closest building.) The newer part of the warehouse had been built in the 1960s, but still way before I was born, he told me. Often I just walked around and wondered what all this concrete would say if it could talk.

Sometimes, if I misbehaved and tipped over one of the massive, man-sized coils of bubble wrap that were laying around or spilled Styrofoam peanuts all over the floor, he’d scold me and send me back to his office to calm down while he picked everything up. I’d sit and pout in his black leather chair (like I said – a lot of free time) for about five minutes before he’d offer a compromise – we’d go get some ice cream if I would put on a happy face.

Deal.

So he’d put up his sign that read “Be back in 5 minutes” and we were off to the local convenience store. By and large our number one pick was boysenberry ice cream. My grandfather would buy the entire half-gallon container and bring it back to work, with an eight year-old boy right along side of him begging and pleading to carry it. Okay, okay, he’d say. You can carry it, but I get the first bite.

Now, I don’t know just how many people have had – for that matter, even heard of – boysenberries. The only thing I can tell you is that they taste somewhat like a raspberry, only with a hint of blueberry in them. If that even sounds good, I suggest getting the ice cream. It’s smooth and creamy like a glass of milk, but with a sweetish tartness to it. On a hot August afternoon when the sun shines and the world bakes, the chilled sensation in your mouth makes it even better. It’s been a long time since I found any locally, but I swear I’ll stock up if I can find it.

We’d eat about half the box before we could get enough. He’d store it away in his small refrigerator-freezer for another time when I would come over, though sometimes he’d let me take it home for an after-dinner dessert. We’d round off the day with a game of cards, followed by a nap.

When it came time for us to go home, my grandfather would always make me promise not to let it spoil my dinner. I would promise every time, but I don’t know how he could expect me to go back to my parent’s house for a spinach and creamed corn dinner after a day like that.