Sundays Are For Sundaes

 

May 15 has now become a day of tradition for my sister, me, and any friends wishing to join us. It is the anniversary of our dad’s birth. This year, our father would have been 90. 

To remember and reminisce about our dad, we meet up at Shake Pit, one of Dad’s favorite ice cream destinations, and indulge. We order hot fudge sundaes, and toast to the man we still miss and mourn every single day.

Our family tradition of ice cream treats dates back to our days in Indiana before our move to Florida. On Sunday, each week, regardless of the season of year, Mom would put a pork roast, or chicken, along with a vegetable casserole of some sort, in the oven before we then went off to church in the morning. It would be all ready for us to eat by the time we returned. Such a substantial meal at noon time meant we were pretty full for the rest of the day. The winter season mostly meant huddling at home, but once winter was over, Sunday afternoons were spent finishing up any weekend outdoor chores that had not been accomplished on Saturday. When chores were light, and time allowed, we would go for a Sunday drive. 

Mom and Dad loved driving to construction sites in developing neighborhoods to take a look at new housing. We would get out of our car and wander around in homes, some of which did not even have drywall installed yet. I would often pick up the punch discs left behind after the electricians had installed the outlet boxes. I would use the coin-like discs as money in the make believe grocery store I played with down in our basement. During these home tours, Dad would point out to Susan and me where the pipes were located for what would eventually be a full or half bathroom, a kitchen, or, in one case, a wet bar in a den. When we once encountered a bathroom that was plumbed not only for an enormous tub, but for a standup shower as well, the oohs and ahs continued on for an hour. Dad and Mom dreamed of having such luxuries someday. 

Once we were done touring several new homes in various states of construction, it would be time to head home. Dad liked to take backroads, winding his way through the Indiana countryside, pretending he had no idea where he was going, or where we would end up. “Dad!” Susan and I would wail, “Where are we going now?” We all knew, of course, but imagining we didn’t was just too much fun. 

The Dairy Queen in Michigan City, Indiana, was open from April 1 through November 1 each year. The surprise at the end of our Sunday afternoon drives was to stop and get a treat. Ice cream sundaes, and an occasional banana split, were the tradition throughout our youth.

Once we’d moved to Florida, there were no more Sunday drives, but we still often had Sunday sundaes. Sometimes they were homemade, and sometimes we went to Shake Pit (cash only!), just a few blocks from our home. 

Even during the decades when Susan and I were raising our own children, visits home invariably included a trip to Shake Pit. 

After Dad’s executive functions were long gone due to his brain cancer, he still remembered that Sundays were for sundaes. He’d pile the ice cream high (I swear he scooped out a quarter of the half gallon containers he bought) top the mound with hot fudge warmed in the microwave, and then sprinkle peanuts on top for the pièce de résistance. I can still see Dad sitting in his Lazy Boy spooning the rich dessert bite by bite into his mouth, savoring every morsel. 

A few days after his death, Susan and I were going through the house, making decisions about the many things our parents had saved throughout the years. On a whim, we decided to walk the few blocks from our family home to Shake Pit and have hot fudge sundaes. While yumming our way through our treats, we talked about how much Dad would have loved seeing us do this. 

Dad’s been gone for over ten years now, but a few years ago, after both Susan and I had moved back to the area, we decided to honor him each year on his birthday with a trip to Shake Pit.

Copyright DJ Anderson, May 2022