Social Events: The Ice Cream Supper

 

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THE ICE CREAM SUPPER

A few weeks ago, as we were driving home from a visit to Reedville, Virginia, I was counting the miles left to go by the signs along the road, when suddenly one of the signs set my thoughts off through a labyrinthine path of daydreams and memories. The sign read:

ZION CROSSROADS

5 MILES

It seemed that, no matter where I traveled in the rural areas of Virginia, there was a Zion Crossroads. I have always assumed that the name derives from the presence of a Zion (or Mt. Zion) Baptist church near the crossroads.

These musings led my thoughts back to the first Zion Crossroads that I knew, along with its own white frame Baptist Church, which was near Fincastle, in Botetourt County. I had been in that churchyard only once - to attend an ice cream supper. I had only hazy recollections of that event, but the thought of it brought back memories of my first ice cream supper, which was not at Mt. Zion Baptist church, but at Forest Grove Baptist, some twenty miles north and west, along route 220. My Barger grandparents were there faithfully every Sunday morning, along with those of their children who still remained at the farm; and it was the church of both my mother and my father before they were married and moved to Roanoke.

I had not been informed of this event before we arrived at the farm that Saturday morning in early September. At the time I was no more than ten years old and full of energy and curiosity; so, as soon as I had dispensed with the greetings as quickly as my mother's sense of etiquette would allow, I changed into my play clothes and charged out toward the hills, fields, and woods, with my mother calling after me, "Be back in an hour for dinner!" I didn't have a watch, but I did have an appetite, so I set my stomach for one hour, and managed to return in plenty of time to wash my hands before the meal.

It turned out to be one of those unforgettable home cooked farm dinners that most people only read about, topped off with a slice of fresh baked apple pie. I was eyeing a second slice of pie, but my mother said, "You'd better not have any more now. You need to save some room in that tummy for the ice cream supper tonight."

"Ice cream supper!" Imagine how those words sound to a ten-year old - especially one who has been told all his life, "If you want any dessert, you're going to have to eat everything on your plate". The idea of a whole meal with ice cream as the only course was a fantasy come true.

But first came an afternoon of work. I wanted to play more, but there was barley to be shocked, and I was drafted to be the water boy. So we (uncle Carl, uncle Collins, my father and I) climbed into the back of the pickup truck, along with a pail of cold spring water, and uncle Dallas drove us to the barley field, a long narrow strip of some two or three acres nearly a mile up the road. I didn't want to appear lazy, so I tried to help, carrying the sheaves of barley over to be stacked into shocks. The sky was cloudless, and the sun seemed extraordinarily hot for September. We all perspired freely, and it was not long before someone called for water. I was glad to get a break from the hot sticky work, but carrying the full pail of water over the uneven ground was no easy task. Fortunately, the pail grew noticeably lighter after just one round, and I took a long break after returning the pail to the nearest shaded area. But my conscience hurt, and I didn't want my uncles to think that I was lazy, so I went back to shocking the barley - an especially unpleasant task, because barley, unlike wheat, is especially irritating to the skin. There was something about that those bearded heads that soon had my arms, face and back itching almost unbearably. Fortunately, we were finished in less than three hours. Then we hopped into the back of the truck for a breezy ride back to the farm - hot and tired, but proud of the brown gold shocks standing in the field; the kind of scene that inspires artists.

We each got a change of clothes and headed down the hill to Lapsley's Run where we found a secluded spot to bathe. (At that time the farmhouse still did not have indoor plumbing.) The water was cool, but it felt good as I washed away the perspiration and the annoying barley chaff. Uncle Collins had promised to go early to help with setting up the tables for the ice cream supper, so I climbed into our car with him and my father, and we set out for the church.

Forest Grove Baptist is not a typical white frame country church with a tall bell tower. As a matter of fact, its octagonal design is probably unique for a country church. As I remember, the door and some of the trimming were painted a light shade of brown. True to its name it was set in a grove of impressive old oak trees on a hill that was almost flat on top, but fell off steeply to the East and South and very gradually to the North and West.

When we drove up, a few men were already there, jabbing at large blocks of ice with ice picks to reduce them to the pebble sized pieces required for the freezers. Soon the parking area was nearly filled with cars and trucks, and the noise level rose as the men began assembling bench-like tables, and the women began the long process of catching up on the status of each other's families. Soon the tables were erected, the ice, with salt, had been packed around the cylinders containing the ice cream mixture, and the freezing was begun - a long, slightly laborious procedure, since the freezers were the full gallon size and were hand cranked. Now, the noise settled down to the irregular hum of many conversations, punctuated occasionally by a laugh or an interjection of surprise. I was already hungry, but when I asked my mother how long it would be until I could have some ice cream, she just said, "A long time. Go play."

I was at a loss. There were a few children there, but I knew that farm boys didn't like to play "cops-and-robbers" and besides, they appeared to be even more shy than I was. However, there was a pretty little girl with long blonde hair and wearing a light blue gingham dress. I kept staring and smiling at her, hoping that she would look back and smile, but she didn't, which was just as well, because I can't imagine how I would have responded if she had. So I started to wander about by myself. I had attended Sunday-School and church here many times on weekend visits to the farm, but I had never had an opportunity to find out what was beyond the narrow circle of oak and scrub trees that surrounded the church. To the left a path led down to an outhouse in a wooded area. In fact, the entire hillside to the left (which was east) of the church was covered with trees, and I wished that I had my city playmates there with me to enjoy them. We could have had great fun playing "cowboys-and-Indians" there. I explored the woods for a while, but I was afraid to go too far from the church, because I knew that there were plenty of wild animals in those woods.

I returned to the churchyard and found everything pretty much as I had left it; so I strolled off toward the cemetery to the right of the church, but I didn't want to go into it. However, it didn't seem so much foreboding as just peaceful, and somehow very appropriate in that quiet setting, where its aging gravestones differed from the natural rock outcroppings in those rugged clay hills only by their shapes and the regularity of their spacing.

I walked around behind the church, beyond the circle of oak trees, and looked out over a panorama of hills leading off to a ridge of mountains to the south and to the west, where the sun had just set. Some of the hills had the plaid pattern of planted fields, and some were wooded, but most of them were just cleared grazing land, with the grass broken in places by white rock formations, betraying the extensive subterranean stony composition of the hills, as the tip of an iceberg marks the presence of an enormous mass of ice hidden below the surface; and broken in other places by long red clay gullies created by uncontrolled erosion.

A soft haze was settling in the lower meadows, emphasizing the quietness of the landscape. The church and the trees stood between me and the activity associated with the social, and I was beyond the range of those noises. The cows had long since been milked and "barned", so that there was not even the tinkle of a distant cowbell. It is difficult to describe the effect that this absolute stillness had on me, with my ears long accustomed to the ubiquitous sounds of the city. It was not a relative, but an absolute, quietness and motionlessness that held me in a state of almost hypnotic awe, and created a strange mood of disorientation in time, so that I felt for a while as though time had stopped; then my mental gears shifted, and I imagined that I might be an Indian having this experience ten thousand years earlier.

I was hungry, so I went to check on the progress of the ice cream making. It was still not ready, but at least some new activities were under way. A fire had been started to roast hot dogs (a meal of nothing but ice cream really was too good to be true), tablecloths had been spread on the makeshift tables, and some picnic type dishes were being set out. Interpreting these developments as an indication that mealtime was imminent, I was encouraged, but hungrier than ever.

The women stood in groups, mostly apart from the men, talking about I'm not sure what; but of this one thing I am certain - they thoroughly enjoyed this festivity. It was not I, with my vision of an ice cream meal, who looked forward to this event with the greatest eagerness. Nor was it my father and his brothers, who had worked up an appetite toiling at a hot, tiring task all afternoon. No - it was my grandmother and my Aunt Lois who had displayed the greatest excitement in anticipation of this outing - this opportunity to socialize outside the narrow family circle. With such a large family, they were not lonely; but with no telephone, and no practical reason to venture more than a few steps from the farmhouse except for church on Sundays, their need for fellowship, neighborly conversation, and conviviality was rarely met.

The men talked some about the weather and about crop yields and prices. But most of their talk was a sort of "banter". To explain this kind of understated kidding, I first need to try to describe the "Barger smile"; which isn't really a smile at all, but a unique facial expression that barely displays the faintest trace of amusement. But it could be called a look of “bemusement” rather than “amusement” if there is indeed a distinction between the two. After a perfectly straight-faced statement, there would be a trace of a lift at the corners of the mouth - a silent but obvious admission that the whole thing was in the spirit of fun; and accompanied by tiny questioning glint in the eyes, as if to ask if the conversation is understood not to be taken seriously. I don't know who started it, but I have seen Aunt Lois, and each of her brothers, except the oldest, perform that identical look; yet I have rarely seen even an approximation to it outside the Barger family.

Now, if you will try to imagine Uncle Collins with that facial expression, one of the dialogues might go something like this:

Homer, a distant relative of my mother's, walks over to Uncle Collins, who is turning the crank of one of the freezers.

Homer: "Sam, (Samuel was Collins's first name) it's takin' a mighty long time to get that stuff ready. Maybe you need to turn that thing a little faster."

Collins: "Well, I just took it over a few minutes ago from that brother of yours. Looks like he mustn't 'a been workin' too hard at it. Might be a good idea to get your mom to speak to him ‘bout that." "Hear she's been puttin' up strawberry preserves for sale."

Homer: "That's right. You interested in buyin' some?"

Collins: "Thought you might bring over some samples. Looks like that's what a good salesman oughta do."

Homer: "Well, it's fifty cents a jar."

Collins: "Don't think I'd wanta pay that much for it without knowin' what it tastes like."

Homer: "You can do all the tastin' you want for fifty cents."

Collins: "Don't think you're too much interested in sellin' it."

Homer: "It's fifty cents a jar."

They could keep up this kind of kidding for hours. I have never known one of them to lack for a rejoinder, or even hesitate, in one of these lighthearted verbal contests.

Although, in outings like this the men talked mostly to other men and the women, to women, there was a significant exception to this "principle". Between the younger, single men and women there was a certain amount of flirting, which, being conducted in front of a crowd of witnesses, was always carried out discreetly and jokingly. It might go something like this: Young lady leaves group of girlfriends and walks over to young man turning freezer crank.

She: "Isn't it about done?"

He: "Well, I guess we could find out, if you'll just get a spoon from over there."

He opens top of cylinder to reveal the surface of the ice cream, which is obviously too mushy, dips a spoon full of the mixture and holds it up for her. But when she leans over to taste it, he slips the spoon upward, leaving a smudge of cream on her nose.

She: "Now look what you've done! You just did that out of meanness!"

He (lying): "You did that to yourself. You were just in too big 'a hurry to eat."

She: "I'll get you for that." She slaps his arm, making him drop the spoon, and runs, blushing and laughing, back to her girlfriends. "Did you see what that scalawag done to me?"

Finally, the ice cream was ready. The only flavor was vanilla, but it had a special, rich taste that must have resulted from the use of fresh cream produced that very afternoon from a hand-turned cream separator. As soon as I finished one cone, I asked for another; but my mother thought that I should eat something besides ice cream, so I tried some of the homemade potato salad that had been set out on one of the tables. It was good - no, it was delicious - but it wasn't ice cream, and that was what this evening was all about. I devoured it quickly and was rewarded with a second cone of ice cream. I asked for a third, but my mother said, "I'm afraid you might get sick. Why don't you go play for a while?"

That suggestion was totally impractical. Any child knows you can't play fantasy games in front of adults; and, since it was completely dark by now, I certainly wasn't going to venture into either the woods or the cemetery. However, I did find my way back behind the church to the spot where I had earlier discovered the wonderful landscape of low hills. But now the scenery had disappeared in the deliquescent darkness of night. The sky was perfectly clear but moonless, and there was not even a light from a distant farmhouse window to pierce the darkness. The horizon along the ridge of mountains to the west was vaguely apparent only because it marked an uncertain demarcation between the faint illumination of the sky by the stars and the total darkness of the earth. The milky way stretched raggedly but clearly across the heavens; and the number and intensity of the stars, seen without the interference of city lights, was startling. In the past I had seen them merely as points of light on a dark blue dome, but now I could see that many of them were colored: yellow, orange, red, pink, or blue. As I stood staring at one particularly bright red star, my eyes grew tired and suddenly played a trick on me. They produced a kind of stereoscopic, three-dimensional effect, in which the brighter stars appeared very near, the faintest ones very distant, and the others at various distances in proportion to their intensity. The sky no longer appeared as a hemispheric dome, but now possessed great depth, extending through the far reaches of space toward infinity.

The air had cooled perceptibly and my bare arms began to shiver, so I hurried back to the cozy fire that earlier had seemed uncomfortably hot. A little more begging netted a third cone of ice cream, and then we began to pack up things to leave. I wedged myself between my mother and grandmother in the back seat of the car; and at that point my memory of the outing vanishes. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing that I remember was being waked up the following morning by the crowing of a rooster.

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