Obadiah and Esther were an old couple that sat on their front porch in the evening of the day waiting for the dark of night. They did this each day at about 6 p.m. when I drove my Snow Cone truck through Alton Park during a hot summer in 1978.
I was young and waiting for graduate school to begin in the Fall. That summer was a cultural expedition. I drove a Snow Cone truck through the neighborhoods of Chattanooga. Simple tunes played over and over on a loudspeaker as I drove up and down streets looking for children with 25 cents.
It was a trek into the world of Snow Cone ball magic.
One evening as I made my rounds, an old man about 90 years, dressed in blue overalls, a faded plaid shirt, topped with a soiled engineers cap, sort of tottered to the street, waving his arms for me to stop.
“Can I help you, Sir,” I inquired. “Yes, Suh,” he responded. “I need me a Duke’s Mixture.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. We had cherry, grape, orange, coconut and blueberry, but no Duke’s Mixture.
He waved his arm over the back of the small pick-up truck, where all the flavors were lined up like colored soldiers, and as if by magic incantation, said, “All of dim!”
The customer is always right.
“Yes, Sir. What size?”
“Duh Big one,” he responded.
I filled up a 50-ounce cup with shaved ice and, like a seasoned bartender, I pumped every flavor into the cup. The color went from blue to purple and on the last pump turned grayish black. This was a Duke’s Mixture.
He handed me a dollar and gave me a nod. (The large size was a dollar.) He stood in the street for a second, glancing towards the front porch where his wife sat in a faded house dress. Then he turned his back to her so she couldn’t see and reached into his deep pocket and pulled out a half-pint of Jack Daniels. Surreptitiously, he filled the cup to the top and slipped the bottle back into his pocket.
He took a sip. He smiled. He wiped his lips. “Ahh,” he breathed.
This became a regular stop. I gradually learned their names. They were an older retired couple, Obadiah (Obi for short) and Esther. He had worked in one of Chattanooga’s many foundries. She had been a cook at the Town and Country restaurant. I guessed she knew about the Jack Daniels, but in deference to the marital bond, ignored it, as long as she didn’t actually see it, a type of relational peace on earth.
The nightly ritual continued, and I met another impetuous family member, five-year-old, Golly, short for Galatians. He ran around in shorts, with no shoes, short, curly back hair and a Puck-like smile. Golly ALWAYS wanted a snow cone, but seldom had any money. His favorite flavor was, like his granddad, his version of a Duke’s Mixture.
One night while I was serving Obi, I turned to make conversation. When I returned to my business, lo and behold, Golly was standing on the bumper, his lips wrapped around the spouts of the sweet nectar and was pumping flavor after flavor into his mouth as quickly as a grasshopper.
The crowd of kids surrounding the truck looked on like Golly was competing for Olympic gold.
“Whoa, young man,” I exclaimed. He looked up at me, smiling with blue lips and went on pumping.
I knew this couldn’t be sanitary; could it? I gently pulled him off. He stood, tummy full, smiling and wiped his lips. “Ahh,” he breathed… just like his grandfather.
I don’t know what happened to them. I went on to school in the fall. But I still remember with a smile, Obadiah, Esther, Galatians and the Duke’s Mixture. It was an intergenerational, Biblical transference of vision and values. Or at least, a trek into Snow Cone dreamland in Alton Park, during a hot summer in 1978.
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Doug Daugherty can be reached at dedsr1952@gmail.com