MY FIRST JOB

I was a couple of years shy of 15 in this picture.  That's me with the handbag, the pigtails and the patriotic shoes.  

Always trying to impress my mother, I attempted to follow in her footsteps.  I applied for my first job as a dipper of ice cream at the same Dairy for which she worked during her teen years in the mid-1950s. 

They hired my 15-year old freckled face- and with a hefty dose of Pennsylvania Dutch work ethic, I proudly donned my white uniform and punched the time-clock. 

I took my job very seriously, learning to dip perfect spheres of ice cream, mounting them on fragile cones with such great vertical precision; no unexpected wind could take them down. Dipping hard ice cream is no child’s play.  My right bicep grew by leaps and embarrassing bounds, making my teenage frame decidedly unbalanced. And it was more than just cones. I could spin a milkshake from scratch to make the staunchest critic salivate. 

Overachiever that I was, I even offered to work the Saturday morning shift with a senior citizen named Eva.  She was one of my favorite persons.  Round.  Diligent.  White-haired. No-nonsense.  She and I (in our ill-conceived white uniforms) would tag-team the weekly cleaning of the ice cream freezer cabinet. Why we didn't wear more appropriate attire, I will never know. At the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings, dear Eva and I would painstakingly carry the 30 or so three-gallon cylindrical containers of ice cream to the back freezer.  We would rip out all the huge holed freezer counters inside (the ones which held the ice cream containers in place to tempt our confection-loving customers.)  Eva would fill buckets with soapy warm water and like some kind of idiot, I would CLIMB INTO THE FREEZER and crouch down for the weekly scrubbing the cabinet abuse.  It took forever to get all the patches of dripped and gummy frozen ice cream off that cabinet.  It was cramped and REALLY cold.  And Eva was nothing if not a task master of perfection.  Her elderly eyes didn't miss a speck. Unfortunate shoppers in pursuit of an early morning bottle of milk might arrive and while peering through the glass door to see if the dairy was yet open (it was not) they would spy my sorry shape through the ice cream cabinet window, scrunched into an unrecognizable heap and plastered against the glass.  Some yet unnamed yoga pose, certainly not Warrior 2, more like BLOCK OF SENSELESS ICE.  Eva would wave them away, shouting her unsympathetic rebuke, suggesting with unmistakable gesture and voice that they actually pay attention to the OBVIOUS HOURS POSTED ON THE DOOR. Did I mention I really liked Eva?  

Most people who cheerfully enter a dairy store and pace before the freezer cabinet containing a vast selection of hand-dipped ice cream enjoy spending their time attempting to make a flavor decision.  Not me.  36 years later, I am still picturing myself INSIDE the cabinet.

But my freezer cleaning and mule-like devotion to my paycheck payed off.  Not just because learning to work hard has served me well in my school nursing career, but because two years after my hiring, a red-headed milk-man from the same dairy started regularly stopping by to observe my dipping prowess.  He and I are celebrating our 30^th wedding anniversary this year.