This story ran in the Pioneer Press around 1992. It was before email so I don't know how many people read it.
So here it goes again. It's Brooklyn, New York sometime in the late 1960s. I was visiting my three cousins and my Aunt Judy. Back in those days, the meal was a formality. Eat a few bites, be nice, and then make the dash to Jahn's. Granted, it was a eight-block walk to Jahn's but that was part of the fun. Huge dishes of ice cream awaited us.
Nothing was out of the ordinary when we arrived at this Flatbush Avenue establishment. Of course, cousin Michael and I had no problems inhaling our huge portions. Mike's younger brother, David, wasn't so lucky. His dish was still half full but it was no problem as Jahn's loaded his leftovers into a box and bagged it for David to bring home.
And then the race home started. Naturally, Michael and I ran ahead of David (now a Florida policeman). David wasn't intimidated and stayed close behind. I can see it today as his bag was swinging as he was running.
And then I heard screaming. The damn bag had broken. I backtracked a few steps and spotted this middle-aged woman yelling at David. I looked back at her husband and he really wasn't there. His face was completely covered in strawberries and melted ice cream. I wrote in the column that no doubt he was thinking he had been killed. He pulled out his handkerchief as his face dripped on the sidewalk. The argument between woman and child ensued. After a moment or two, I politely interrupted the fracas by saying excuse me a few times. Both the woman and David turned to me and asked what was up. I said, "We are leaving." And then quielty told David to run.
She said no. David said yes. And we ran down the street as fast as we could.
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