sticky

My son-in-law has likened exiting our daughter's Volkswagen, to hatching. Well, in we clamoured anyway, and set off in the golden light of early evening, our destination, Birchwood Dairy. The occasion was "Birthday Ice Cream" for my father's 88th. As we swung in to the parking lot, I could see my grandchildren, like little flowers, in front of the barn. From the shadowy stall, large eyed cows gazed out at large eyed toddlers. These were invalid cows, my grandson informed me, taking a respite from the rigors of milking.
The sun still held some of the intensity of the heat of the day and so we retreated into the air conditioned parlour. Before long, we were debating the merits of sugar versus plain cone, one scoop or two, and flavor, flavor, flavor.
Back outside, we clustered around an umbrella topped table, a chair for each, and each in a chair. My little granddaughter has attained that age of Independence, and held her own ice cream cone. The frosty orb defied gravity and clung to the cone, which was held every which way but upright. The evening heat began to take it's toll, and blobs of pink cream dropped onto her dress. This was a big worry to her, and she waved her cone precariously in one hand while pointing with concern to her hemline. It was when the cold stickiness reached her skin that she decided, enough was enough. "Do you want your Mommy to change you," I asked. "Oh yes," she nodded clamouring out of her chair, into my arms. Her legs and dress were sticky, the hand she clutched mine with, even stickier, and she firmly placed her ice cream cone on my shoulder, as if knighting me. I knight thee, sir grandma, in honor of acts of bravery in the face of great stickiness......... I had forgotten how much fun getting sticky can be.