A Trip to Mecca

by Ron Collins

There's a place here in Columbus. Our family considers it Mecca. It is an important place. It is a place of many visits, a place of celebration and of solace.

What is this place, you might ask? Is it a church, or a park, or some other such place of meditation and beauty?

No.

It is an ice cream shop.

It is a small place--one of those outdoor stands with a walk up window (and a drive up, but we ignore that as often as we can). It has tables outside with big umbrellas to keep the sun off. It's open and clean, and makes its ice cream there on the spot, serving three or four main flavors a day because (I assume) that's all they can set up for. In short, it is the perfect ice cream place. Sitting with your family at one of those big stone tables on a Saturday in June with the big high sky and white clouds and enveloped by the smells of vanilla and cream is about as close to the apex as life can get.

Unfortunately, since it's an open stand, the place closes for the winter.

In itself, maybe this is good because it provides for the annual rite of the November rush. Mecca is closing! We must go to Mecca! Mecca is closing soon! We must go to Mecca!

Personally, I begin to use this excuse come about August.

But is also gives rise to that great institution of Opening Day, which is better than baseball's opening day in my book, though not quite so steeped in tradition.

Yesterday was Opening Day.

I had suggested that we camp out there Sunday night to make sure we were first in line. I think I had Brigid on my side, but Lisa got one of those "You're so insufferable" looks on her face, and I knew I was doomed to not be first.

Still.

The day dawned. It was cold.

Snow actually fell in the afternoon. My spirits drooped. What if Lisa and Brigid decide they don't want to go? What if they figure it's just too cold? We're out of Mecca shape. It's Opening Day. What if they decide to postpone due to excessive intelligence?

I stayed later at work than I normally do. It's that dedication thing biting me again.

What if they think it's too late? What if they get tired? What if we're not hungry after dinner?

The phone rang at quarter to six.

"Where are you?" Lisa's voice was firm and direct at the other end. "Dinner's ready and it's Mecca night."

My heart soared. That's my girl, I thought. Back in the saddle again.

"I'll be right there."

So I dropped everything, hopped in the car, and raced home to scarf down enough food to make it look good but ensure that I would have room left. Can't be too careful, you know? A quick check of the e-mail, and I was ready to go. (Hey, you've got to have priorities, you know? E-mail above all. Ice cream Mecca a close second).

It was dark by the time we left.

Cold.

Still, we made it there. It was open, lights splaying over the open concrete porch, kids in their uniform shirts manning the counter, drive up window doing a great business. "Drive up's fine with me," Lisa said. I considered the alternative and quickly agreed. We ordered. Ice cream arrived. I paid. We sat in the car in the parking lot. Yes.

Snow swirled around us in the lights--little silver motes like ice cream fairies dancing on the wind. Cars drove past the drive up. A few teenagers actually went to the window.

We talked. We laughed. We ate ice cream.

I hit bottom first, so I drove home while Lisa and Brigid finished. Occasionally Brigid doesn't complete her ice cream and I get he leavings. Eating your daughter's left over ice cream is a tough part of being a dad. But a tougher part is dealing with it when there isn't any left over. Brigid finished it all as we were nearing home. The saddest sound you'll ever hear is the sound of plastic spoon on Styrofoam cup. It is the sound of perfection slipping into the past.

Or, perhaps, instead, it is the most satisfying sound of all. Perhaps that sound signifies the end of a perfect moment, and as such comes with that gentle feeling of understanding something too deep to put into words...

I can't tell which is right. Saddest? Most satisfying?

I guess it'll take a bit more experimentation.

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Copyright © 2001-2007 Ron Collins
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:
Ron Collins is a prize-winning author of speculative fiction who lives in Columbus, Indiana, with his wife, Lisa, and their daughter, Brigid. Press and edited by Val Dumond. You can learn more about Ron by visiting his Web site, Typosphere.