The empress of ice cream
Plus my weekly shareables: Self-editing, self-discipline, and an Elvis joke
On Saturday, after the memorial service for Joann Felsing—Alix’s mom—we stepped out into the gathering room of our church for ice cream.
It was a tribute to Joann, who capped off nearly every night with a serving of ice cream and often snuck in an extra serving or two during the day. She loved all ice cream, pretty much any flavor, but she especially enjoyed the Mayfield brand—made in Tennessee, like her. So we had little cups of Mayfield, some chocolate, some vanilla.
It struck me, as we were planning the service, how many of our older friends craved ice cream in their final years.
A few years ago we had ice cream at the service for our old friend Dick Berg. Dick’s wife, Jean, served with Alix for a while on the governing board of our church. On Sundays when they had meetings, I’d take Dick to one of his favorite places—Arby’s. Sometimes he got a sandwich, sometimes not, but he always got a milkshake.
My mom devoured ice cream at the end, too. She was living in a nursing home in Georgia, just down the road from my brother and his wife, and most every night they’d bring her a cup of Ben & Jerry’s just before bedtime. When Alix and I came to visit, we took over the ice cream delivery. Sometimes I would hide it behind my back until I got right up next to her. Then I’d reveal it with a flourish and her eyes would light up like she had just seen a magic trick.
I know people who don’t like pizza. I know people who don’t like chocolate or cheese or bacon or burgers. I know a couple of people who don’t even like fresh homegrown tomatoes, God help their souls. But I don’t know anybody who doesn’t like ice cream.
It can be sexy, dripping down your lover’s wrist in the sun, or it can be soothing, softening the blow of a breakup.
But I wonder if older folks understand ice cream in a way the rest of us don’t.
Some of you might have caught the reference in the title of today’s newsletter. It’s a shout-out to the Wallace Stevens poem “The Emperor of Ice-Cream.”
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Stevens is one of those writers who requires a close read and maybe the onset of a slight migraine before you start to figure out what he’s doing. I think this poem is made up of two related scenes. The first is in a kitchen where people are having a wake or visitation for the woman in the second stanza, who has died and is stretched out on her bed. It’s like most memorial services: celebrating life while honoring the dead.
OK, fine. But what does the ice cream stand for?
Stevens was never much for explaining his poems. But to me, the ice cream stands for our short, sweet lives. At some point we all end up on the bed in the quiet room. The oldest among us understand that better than anyone.
They also understand that we are the emperors and empresses of the time we have until then. Indulge yourself. Don’t let it melt away.
10 things I wanted to share this week:
My weekly for WFAE was about surviving the coming cold spell, literally and figuratively.
My friend Josh Sharpe has a powerful piece in the NYT about a former prosecutor who regretted a case from his early days—and tried to make it right.
Excellent advice alert: Austin Kleon’s three tricks for self-editing. “Read your stuff out loud” is the best writing advice no one wants to take.
Related, in a way: Oliver Burkeman’s guide to finding the right amount of self-discipline. I am adopting the MTO method immediately.
Beautifully visually done: A look at Robert Caro’s home library. (Washington Post)
You’ll be hearing more from him on next week’s SOUTHBOUND, but for now: Andy Corren’s DIRTBAG QUEEN, a memoir of his wild-ass Jewish redneck mother, is a hoot with heart from start to finish.
The latest from my friend Jeremy Markovich at North Carolina Rabbit Hole: An expertly told story about Elvis’ concert in a North Carolina town. As with all jokes, the best part is the kicker.
Pete Carroll’s hiring as the new Las Vegas Raiders coach led to this 2007 profile of him being passed around again. It’s by JR Moehringer (THE TENDER BAR, Andre Agassi’s book OPEN) and it’s just fantastic. (LA Magazine)
RIP Garth Hudson, the last surviving member of The Band. My favorite detail in this Amanda Petrusich tribute: The rest of the band members wanted him to join so bad that they not only bought him the organ he wanted but paid him an extra 10 bucks a week to be their music teacher. (New Yorker)
Might as well take us home on one of Garth’s finest moments, “Up On Cripple Creek”—his funky keyboard riff is a precursor of sorts to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.”
Upcoming events:
Feb. 8: Savannah Book Festival (I’m speaking at 2:20 p.m., just before my bud Joe Posnanski)
Feb. 22: Southern Voices in Hoover, Alabama
March 30: Distinguished Speaker Series at Lanier Library in Tryon, NC. FYI, they sent me this awesome flyer for the event:
April: DOGLAND paperback tour (dates TBA)
Before I go, one quick correction from last week’s newsletter: I mentioned the baseball stat WAR (Wins Above Replacement) as measuring a player’s value compared to an average major league player. It’s really a comparison against a replacement-level player—somebody called up from the minor leagues, for example. So somebody who’s likely below average. Sorry about the error and I’ve corrected it in the newsletter.
Have a great weekend, everybody…
—TT
Really felt this one. My Dad, whose nickname was “The Kid,” ate ice cream twice/day once he moved to a senior apt. I got him his last one - vanilla with chocolate sauce- from a vending machine at the hospital where he wound up after the fall that killed him a week later. He scraped every ounce out of that cup and, yes, that’s how he lived - all the way.
My mother was the same way. She ate ice cream every day in a bowl as big as her head. Vanilla, butter pecan, pistachio, mint chocolate chip. Chocolate, peach or strawberry. If I gave her a smaller bowl, I'd get "the look." She ate it my whole life but there was more down the hatch in her later years. I think a little of it was nostalgia for the incredible home-churned dessert my grandmother made but most of it was a natural and accelerating proclivity. Never seen that poem before and yes, indeed, it merits a few readings. Thanks for your words and the way you bring them.