chin for “not.” Then I moved his S hand up and down on top of his fisted left hand for “working.”
Ma and I followed him to the family room. The remote control wasn’t working. I kept pressing buttons, but nothing helped.
The same question whirled around in my head like aHula-Hoop. What was Ma going to buy the business with? I’d peeked at her checkbook on the counter after she’d returned from grocery shopping the other day. There wasn’t enough to fix the car heater. But she spewed on with her business plans. How the shop was located in the heart of bustling Schenectady, at the corner of State and Lafayette streets, between a shoe-repair place and a pizzeria, with a bus stop right out front.
“The owner, Jerry Breyers—no relation to that grocery-store brand,” she quickly pointed out, “gave me the full shop tour. Place was built in 1926, and it’s got a charming old-fashioned marble counter and backsplash, and brass light fixtures like the drugstores had back then. You’re going to love it, Tess. With your style and decorator know-how, we can turn this place into the talk of the town!”
Ma said the shop had been turning a decent profit for the past twelve years—in spite of a downtown business slump running longer than the Mohawk River—but Jerry’s arthritis was flaring up so bad this snowy winter, he’d decided to pack it in and move to North Carolina.
“He calls his shop Van Curler Creamery after the city’s founder, but I’ve got another name picked out,” she said, grinning.
“What? Tell me,” I said, my arms crossed over my sweater.
“Not so fast. I didn’t announce you’d be a Tess till you made your appearance, and the same goes for my business baby. But don’t you fret. It’s the perfect name.”
Finally, after fiddling with the remote buttons fifty different ways, I tried changing the batteries. That did the trick. I gavethe remote back to Jordan, with closed captions turned on. He smiled and plopped down to watch a cartoon.
Ma and I went back to the kitchen. I rubbed my cold hands together and suddenly felt like a temperamental ox.
“Once the business is mine, I’m getting our old sewing machine repaired,” Ma said. “I was hoping you’d make curtains for the front display window. Nobody’s better at prettying up a room than you, and this shop is just asking for a cutesy old-time café look.”
If there was a shred of good news in all this, it was hearing Ma was getting the sewing machine fixed. It sat in the hall closet broken, just like it had been back in San Antonio for six months. I missed being able to make clothes and accessories.
I reached for the dice and looked up at Ma. “What does that training manual say about an ice cream shop’s chance of making it in the snowbelt? Nobody eats as much ice cream as we do, Ma, especially not when the weather is colder than ice cream.”
“The
Inside Scoop
says there are plenty of four-season consumers around here,” Ma answered. “It all comes down to the ‘razzle-dazzle factor’: making our shop an entertaining experience for everyone who walks through the door. And we’ll offer prepacked products too, so folks can grab and go when they’re freezing their patooties off.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
“Nothing’s simple, Tess. It’ll take a lot of elbow grease. And the
Inside Scoop
says we gotta stay ahead of the trends. That’s how those fellas Ben and Jerry got rich, right?”
Ma quoted the
Inside Scoop
like it was the Bible. I imagined a chorus of ice cream shop owners kneeling before the hot-fudge dispenser, their hands clutching scoopers and their hearts filled with the divine Spirit of Frozen Creamy Sweetness.
I heard Jordan giggling as he watched TV. Peanut butter is his all-time favorite flavor. It’s hard to find, but Ma knew exactly where to get it back in San Antonio—at a drive-in stand ten miles north of the city. Once when Pop was still with us, and Jordan was a toddler and
Ma and I followed him to the family room. The remote control wasn’t working. I kept pressing buttons, but nothing helped.
The same question whirled around in my head like aHula-Hoop. What was Ma going to buy the business with? I’d peeked at her checkbook on the counter after she’d returned from grocery shopping the other day. There wasn’t enough to fix the car heater. But she spewed on with her business plans. How the shop was located in the heart of bustling Schenectady, at the corner of State and Lafayette streets, between a shoe-repair place and a pizzeria, with a bus stop right out front.
“The owner, Jerry Breyers—no relation to that grocery-store brand,” she quickly pointed out, “gave me the full shop tour. Place was built in 1926, and it’s got a charming old-fashioned marble counter and backsplash, and brass light fixtures like the drugstores had back then. You’re going to love it, Tess. With your style and decorator know-how, we can turn this place into the talk of the town!”
Ma said the shop had been turning a decent profit for the past twelve years—in spite of a downtown business slump running longer than the Mohawk River—but Jerry’s arthritis was flaring up so bad this snowy winter, he’d decided to pack it in and move to North Carolina.
“He calls his shop Van Curler Creamery after the city’s founder, but I’ve got another name picked out,” she said, grinning.
“What? Tell me,” I said, my arms crossed over my sweater.
“Not so fast. I didn’t announce you’d be a Tess till you made your appearance, and the same goes for my business baby. But don’t you fret. It’s the perfect name.”
Finally, after fiddling with the remote buttons fifty different ways, I tried changing the batteries. That did the trick. I gavethe remote back to Jordan, with closed captions turned on. He smiled and plopped down to watch a cartoon.
Ma and I went back to the kitchen. I rubbed my cold hands together and suddenly felt like a temperamental ox.
“Once the business is mine, I’m getting our old sewing machine repaired,” Ma said. “I was hoping you’d make curtains for the front display window. Nobody’s better at prettying up a room than you, and this shop is just asking for a cutesy old-time café look.”
If there was a shred of good news in all this, it was hearing Ma was getting the sewing machine fixed. It sat in the hall closet broken, just like it had been back in San Antonio for six months. I missed being able to make clothes and accessories.
I reached for the dice and looked up at Ma. “What does that training manual say about an ice cream shop’s chance of making it in the snowbelt? Nobody eats as much ice cream as we do, Ma, especially not when the weather is colder than ice cream.”
“The
Inside Scoop
says there are plenty of four-season consumers around here,” Ma answered. “It all comes down to the ‘razzle-dazzle factor’: making our shop an entertaining experience for everyone who walks through the door. And we’ll offer prepacked products too, so folks can grab and go when they’re freezing their patooties off.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
“Nothing’s simple, Tess. It’ll take a lot of elbow grease. And the
Inside Scoop
says we gotta stay ahead of the trends. That’s how those fellas Ben and Jerry got rich, right?”
Ma quoted the
Inside Scoop
like it was the Bible. I imagined a chorus of ice cream shop owners kneeling before the hot-fudge dispenser, their hands clutching scoopers and their hearts filled with the divine Spirit of Frozen Creamy Sweetness.
I heard Jordan giggling as he watched TV. Peanut butter is his all-time favorite flavor. It’s hard to find, but Ma knew exactly where to get it back in San Antonio—at a drive-in stand ten miles north of the city. Once when Pop was still with us, and Jordan was a toddler and
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