Memories live on seemingly forever in our minds. The fountain of youth so vigorously sought after has been contained within us this all along, just above the spinal cord. Here is a story I would like to share from the amazing Sara Bellum:
In the mid 90’s my father had a job that required him to wine and dine clients. We lived in a small suburb just outside of Atlanta called Loganville. Contained within his client wooing arsenal were season tickets to the Atlanta Braves. Sometimes, there were no clients to woo so Dad would take me and my older brother to see David Justice smack a few out of the park.
On one such occasion, we decided to split early, around the 7th inning or so, as was our custom. Sometimes these National League games could drone on forever, which was especially boring if the point spread was greater than five or six. We got out of our seats, which were located in the middle deck, on the first base side in the now long gone Fulton County Stadium, and walked out of the stadium to our maroon 90’s Chevy Lumina and tuned our radio to WSB, 750 A.M. radio.
Smelling red-hots and boiled peanuts all night can make a guy hungry, and we had long ago finished the Krystals we had brought with us that night. It was nearing midnight so we decided to hit up a local DQ drive-thru and grab some frozen delights.
I don’t remember what I chose that night, but I believe it was a large Strawberry Shake. I always loved shakes because for some reason as a kid I was always thirsty…and drinking a shake seemed to, if only psychosomatically, satisfy both my craving for liquid as well as my sweet tooth.
My brother and father both chose banana splits as best I can recall. I do remember my dad making that goofy face he would always make and saying in his patent silly voice “Oh boy, they’re loadin’ em up good tonight” followed by two loud lip smacks and a clasping of his hands as he rubbed them from side to side.
My dad always judged his desserts by how many toppings were on them…the more the merrier. The cashier who had originally taken our order at the speaker was gone, we assumed it was a possible shift change or just his time to get off. So the young Indian man who we had seen make the splits handed us the frozen delights. For some reason, everyone who worked at that DQ was Indian, and at that age I didn’t understand why.
My dad and my brother both got wide eyes and were seemingly too excited to speak. The car was instantly filled with the aroma of sweet cream and sugar…that Dairy Queen smell that just can’t be described, only enjoyed and remembered within the realms of our mind.
My dad grabbed the cash to pay the man and placed it in his left palm. He brought his hand up to the window just in time for the ice cream sculptor to proclaim in a loud, broken-English voice “Buh-Bye, Have a nice night…Don’t Spill It!” before shutting the drive thru window and walking away.
My dad sat there for a minute, dumbfounded. He looked at the money in his hand, looked at us, looked back at the empty drive through window, and put the money back in his pocket. We sat there for another minute continuing to stare at the empty window, before driving off.
About five minutes down the road on I85, dad burst out with a loud Indian accent “Don’t Spill It” and we all laughed. We then all discussed and reenacted the scene of dad holding up the money and getting the window shut in his face. It is one of the only surviving memories of the many many Braves games I attended during my middle school years.
My dad was no thief, but I could tell years later he still had a tinge of guilt in his soul for not paying that poor DQ cashier. In 2008 as he lay dying and in pain from Pancreatic Cancer and a failed Whipple operation, we attempted to cheer him up with stories from the past.
We said out loud in our best Indian accent “Hey Dad….Don’t Spill It!” …but instead of laughing my dad looked up with his weak eyes and said in his feeble voice “When are you all going to let me forget I am a thief…”
It’s funny how we remember things, and how we look at them. Something that had made me and my brother laugh for over 15 years was something that had been buried in the back of my dad’s mind as a regretful night of ice cream thievery.
So this father’s day I think of my Dad in Heaven…as his cup overflows and I want to say to him…”Dad….Don’t Spill It”….
Happy Father’s Day, may you make memories that last forever…
