UNITED STATES—Since Stovepipe Wells, a tiny collection of a motel and store, at the western mouth of
Death Valley, I had been dreaming of an ice-cream cone. The dream became a real possibility when we pulled into Lone Pine and we chose a vintage burger joint at the fringes of this alpine settlement, contrasted so sharply with the arid awe of
Death Valley.
The kids ordered grilled cheese and fries and the grown-ups had very decent burgers. When the orders came in the bag, there was a bit of bewilderment determining which were the hamburgers and which were the grilled cheese, because the Frosty Chalet made their grilled cheese of melted squares of American cheese on spongy round hamburger buns. It took a while for us to distinguish the very flat buns oozing yellow drool versus the burgers.
Once the determination was made the kids were campaigning to get an ice-cream float in consolation for the insult of being served a grilled cheese sandwich on a hamburger bun.
Buying lunch at a cash-only place left me just enough to buy a small vanilla cone. After first seeing ice-cream offered in a Death Valley souvenir store, I had my heart set on a creamy frosty vanilla cone. It was a tough choice; some dads might have sacrificed their wishes to please a child, but I deserved this and wanted this. The yen had been building up since we left Death Valley, where the vistas are breathtaking, the heat is stifling, and the perks of civilization, usually taken for granted, are so seldom encountered in the unanswerable wastelands that a glass of water or ice-cream become mesmerizing.
In Lone Pine, I went inside Frosty Chalet and ordered the cone. Then I carried it back outside, where we had been eating, nonchalantly as possible as I juggled both guilt and shamelessness. I was able to lick it successfully and relish it in the warm afternoon sun of the Eastern Sierra, and my daughter, still unhappy about the sham grilled cheese in the severe way a child can be unhappy, when expectations are foiled, grabbed the cone from me and began to lick it mischievously. As a courtesy, she gave it back to me, for an achingly brief lapse, and then continued to lick away and do to the cone what global warming is doing to the polar icecaps.
This was parenthood–to relinquish a coveted ice-cream cone to my child and crave that cold creamy vanilla and yet be reconciled that my child was enjoying it, simultaneously, while depriving me of it. I stood from the picnic table, and strolled to the back of the Tasty Chalet, both smarting from the turn of events and pleased that my temper had not boiled over. There is both a sting and reward in placing another’s happiness before one’s own.
As I stood alone mulling this over and regretting that the option to simply buy another cone was closed to me, my daughter came from behind the white garbage bin and extended the bottom remainder of cone, not devoured, and still holding a good portion of vanilla that had not yet melted. The offering flooded me with gratitude, never mind that she didn’t like to eat the bottom of plain cone. Filled by anticipation, I began to nibble its edges, and she wrested the cone from me. Aw shucks, it got me again. Fury took over briefly, no more and no less potent than the displeasure a child must feel at being served a grilled cheese in a soft hamburger bun.
My mischievous daughter finally relented and gave me back the stub of cone, which was dripping relentlessly. Our trip continued. A lot can fall, twixt the cup and the lip, or between the cone and the lick.
Humorist Grady Miller is author of “Lighten Up Now: The Grady Diet” and the humor collection “Late Bloomer,” available on Amazon. He can be reached at grady.miller@canyon-news.com
