banana nut ice cream

Writing prompts are funny things. They can dredge up the old and new all in one giant scoop of metaphorical ice cream.

As the teacher read the book excerpt, I thought of how I'm trying to break the ice cream habit at our house—to no avail. I thought about how much I have always loved ice cream. And I also thought about the banana nut ice cream my parents used to make in our old wooden ice cream maker on random occasions.

It was always at nighttime for some reason, like we couldn't ever go on a whim of ice cream making until the sun went down or something. It probably added to the excitement though. Dark outside, the rock salt being placed on the countertop, then the ice cream maker pulled out from the pantry or under the sink or wherever it got left from the last time we made ice cream—all of these things meant we would be making banana nut ice cream. I am not sure, but I think we may have done strawberry ice cream once or twice when we had a mother lode of leftover Santa Maria strawberries from a summer haul. But seriously, most of the time, if that ice cream maker was cranking out something, it was going to crank out the best banana nut ice cream on the planet.

Mom went through a phase where we bought raw milk from a neighbor instead of from the store, so she'd take off the cream skimmings and save them up in the freezer. And once we had enough to make ice cream, we made ice cream. I have to say I sort of hated how the raw milk had swirls of cream in it, but I'm thinking it was probably the best tasting milk I ever had. And that ice cream. Just wow.

So back to the whole banana nut part. I'm pretty sure we always had banana nut ice cream because it was Dad's favorite. There were little things here and there my mother would do to make life happy for him, and steak dinners from time to time, homemade divinity and peanut brittle at Christmas, and that banana nut ice cream were a few of them.

Since he grew up so poor, food was a big deal to him. Good food. Fresh food. LOTS of food. And even lots of junk food and treats. We went through a time, several years actually, when we were without much money at all, but he always made sure we had food to eat.

silent

Actors on a stage in their caked on pancake makeup
And heavily drawn or thinly drawn
(depending on the fashion)
Eyebrows, eyeliner, and lips

Dressed to the nines in jewels and satin
Tailored and suited to the big part in
The newest picture show
In the little town now grown big

Ready to tell a story
Wanting and practicing for the role
Going through the motions
To paint a picture—put on a show

Perfect hair and perfect clothes
The cameraman gets rolling
Stopping and starting over and over again
Only to not actually say a word

We are all silent picture show actors
When we prepare to say nothing
When we act one way but do nothing
We are all pretenders and playactors

Instead, join the circus or the talkies
Be ready to stand in the ring
Front and center
Doing

gambling lessons

Growing up in Las Vegas and having a dad who used to gamble and drink before marrying Mom, we played a lot of card games. We played Poker, Blackjack or 21, Speed, Tonk, all sorts of games, but these were the ones I remember most.

I remember learning how to play Speed with a friend from fifth grade while sitting in her perfectly carpeted and furnished living room in half dark since the heat was brutal that day/week/month. I don't remember learning how to play 21 since it happened probably as soon as I learned how to count to 21 by age 5. And then Poker was another family classic we'd resort to for old-fashioned, wholesome recreation around the dining room table.

But let's talk about Tonk. That's a whole other ballgame. Dad used to work endless days sometimes in the tunnels out at the Nevada Test Site, and that meant he spent a lot of time with his work crew, working their butts off, eating, sleeping, and playing Tonk. So of course, as any good dad would do, he came home and taught all of us how to play Tonk too. We had to have a full and proper Las Vegas education, you know. This new game caught on like wildfire at our house. Not sure if it was to my mother's chagrin or what, but that's all we wanted to do half the time when we weren't outside baking in the hot summer sun with our friends.

One thing led to another, and we all started betting. Gambling with trinkets of our own, and pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. And next thing you know, we were running gambling tabs. Looking back, I think the tabs were Dad's idea. These gambling tabs were for 99-cent breakfasts at the Skyline Casino in Henderson. The abstractness of it being a breakfast and not dollar amounts seemed to make the practice a little less shady. Tally marks on a page. That's all. I mean breakfasts are a good thing. You could order one with biscuits and gravy and eggs, pancakes and eggs, toast and eggs, and then you had your choice of ham, bacon, or sausage. They were delicious and decent sized breakfasts for not quite a dollar.

The last game before the big lesson came when I fell into a losing streak. Tonk was kicking my butt. Actually, my dad was. Hindsight tells me he probably just stopped letting me win to teach me a lesson. I remember the tally marks on my tab were insane. Then we played for double or nothing. High stakes business right there—and I lost. I told Dad I had just enough babysitting money leftover to buy us a breakfast, and I'd begin the process of weekly breakfasts as soon as I got a babysitting job to pay for them. And we went out for the first payment.

It was nighttime as we walked in, and the casino was extra smoky. If you have been to the Skyline Casino in Henderson during the 80s, you'd probably ask if it ever was not extra smoky. I noticed this atmosphere as we got seated in the half-lit, extra smoky booth with dark red vinyl upholstery. We ordered our food and talked and ate and talked, even though now, I cannot recall what we talked about except what came up when the bill got dropped on the table and I sat there counting out my coins to pay for our food. I had it all counted out, piled on top of the ticket, and I felt so broke. I had to spend all of my money but a few pennies on our two 99-cent breakfasts. I did feel a morsel of satisfaction about trying to make good on my bets though. It was this strange sense of being glad I had a spoon to dig myself out of a 6-foot grave. Then Dad started talking.

I don't remember exactly what he told me, but I remember the gist of it all. I haven't and won't ever forget it. He told me to put my money away because he was going to pay for our breakfasts if I promised to remember what it felt like to be in so much debt to someone over nothing but a game. My first and long-lasting lesson about the evils of gambling, and I was around twelve years old at the time.

My dad's lesson taught me more than just not to gamble though. He taught me about mercy and love and how to handle the money you do have. Because 99-cent breakfasts aren't just tally marks on a page.

ladders

Up and down and all around
They don't just go in one direction
For work and play, everything in between
If you find yourself at the top rung hanging on for dear life
Unhappy, frantic, and/or afraid
Head back down and start again

Ladders should take you places
To the roof to patch the holes
To the treehouse that was never in a tree
To the job you always wanted (or didn't know you wanted)
Out of the window to grand adventures
Out of the hellhole you once were living in

What of life's ladders do you climb?
Should you climb them or
Should you get down?
Use a litmus test to know the answers
Become the judge and jury of your future
Knowing not all ladders are good

Splintering fiberglass gets in your palms
When climbing the wrong one—whether up or down
But get down now, pay the price, and start again
Regardless of cost, don't be afraid to start again

Find the ladders meant for you
Find a top rung that makes you sing