It was 1970 in a small town in Pennsylvania. I was 11 years old and extremely independent. I had two younger sisters whom I felt constantly needed to be told what to do, and a newspaper route where I was tenacious about collecting my money on Saturdays. So I had no problem walking to the grocery store on my own.
Life was safe in that small town back then. Everyone pretty much knew everyone, and no one could get away with anything. So my mother was relatively confident that I could safely walk down the street to the store and get supplies when she needed them. I could also be rather mean. Mom’s problem was that I was a pre-teenager and had my own agenda of things I wanted to do. I didn’t help that I would argue with a fencepost.
Anyway, one day she decided to do something special for us and sent me to the store for ice cream. We didn’t have a lot of money in those days, so ice cream was a real treat.
My mother is extremely well read, and because of that, she is the smartest lady I have ever known. When able, she took classes here and there that were offered for free or at low cost and increased her knowledge. One day she decided to see just how many credits she had, sent them off to a college, and was absolutely shocked when she was awarded a college degree, a master’s degree, and was well on her way to a doctorate. She finished her doctorate, and we are so proud of her. I say all this to let you know that my mom is not a stupid woman.
But one day, I saw her completely flummoxed.
I went to the store for ice cream like she asked. When I returned home, she opened the carton, ready to spoon some out and cover with homemade chocolate syrup.
That’s when she let out a shriek.
I went running back into the kitchen to find her staring down into the ice cream carton.
“What!” I asked rather alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Bugs!” she shouted. “There are bugs in the ice cream!” I looked into the carton and saw them…little black dots. They were everywhere.
“Take this ice cream back to the store and show the manager, then bring home another carton,” she demanded.
I really wanted that chocolate syrup, so reluctantly, I grabbed the carton and headed back to the store. When I went in, I found the manager and told him about the ice cream bugs.
He didn’t check it; he just took the carton, apologized, and told me to get another carton.
Back I went and handed the carton to mom.
She opened it and let out a frustrated sigh. “This one has bugs, too! Take it back!”
Sighing and rolling my eyes, I dragged myself back out the door and to the grocery store. This time I was determined to speak with the manager. He really needed to do something about the critters in the ice cream.
I went in the door and straight up to the manager and told him that this carton of ice cream was also contaminated with bugs. Hearing this he frowned, looking puzzled. He opened the bag and took out the carton. Opening it he stared down into the melting vanilla ice cream and then started chuckling.
“It’s not bugs!” he said laughing. “Those are vanilla beans.” He pointed to the label that claimed the vanilla ice cream was made with real vanilla beans.
I felt like an idiot.
I thanked him, blushing about 20 shades of red, and then beat a path out the front door of the grocery store. I rushed home, giggling the whole way, because this was the first time I had ever seen my mother wrong about anything. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction. It was the funniest joke ever.
I went into the house and into the kitchen. I handed mom the ice cream and she opened the carton. Before she could talk about “bugs” again I pointed to the label.
“Vanilla beans, Mom,” I said. “They aren’t bugs; they are vanilla beans.”
Momma looked chagrined and startled. “I have never seen this before,” she said.
I took pity on her and didn’t fuss about two trips to the grocery store including the utter humiliation at the hands of the manager. I didn’t laugh at her lack of knowledge regarding vanilla ice cream ingredients. I just shrugged. “Evidently, it’s a new thing,” I said.
As I ate my ice cream and slurped down chocolate syrup, it dawned on me that I was growing up. I could have made fun of my mom, but I didn’t. I was learning to be kind. I also learned another valuable lesson.
When I get married, have kids and send them to the store, read the labels before sending them back.
