My dad likes ice cream.

Back in the ’60s, he’d take us out for a family drive around Berkshire County on hot summer Sunday afternoons. Chances are, we’d end up at Dairy Queen.

We’d each get a dipped cone. Back then, there were two choices: vanilla soft serve, dipped in chocolate or cherry.

Chocolate for my brothers. Cherry for me.

Dad always had a plan. He wouldn’t order anything for himself, but was at the ready to “help out” when our ice cream started dripping.

“Let me give you a hand with that …” he’d offer, grabbing my cone as it threatened to melt all over the car’s back seat. His eyes would take on a wild look and he’d slurp down all the drips, plus some extra ice cream. Just in case.

Then he’d move on and “clean up” my brothers’ cones as well.

It was such a proud moment for him when granddaughter Becky went on to found the Tin Pot Creamery in the San Francisco Bay area.

Even during the winter months, our freezer was stocked with ice cream. Mom liked to find seasonal varieties, such as Peppermint Ice Cream and Pumpkin Ice Cream.

The other evening, Dad mentioned working as an ice cream scooper one summer in Lowell, Massachusetts. He was just 11 or 12 years old at the time.

Silly me, I’d thought the role of Soda Jerk was his first job. Until, of course, I learned about his paper route.

So this was your first job, Dad?

Oh, no. Before that I caddied and sold magazine subscriptions.

My dad knew how to hustle.

He was a newly graduated 6th grader at Immaculate Conception School in Lowell.

Here’s his class picture from 1942:

Dad found a job that summer scooping ice cream in a shop across from Shedd Park, not far from his home in the Belvidere neighborhood of Lowell.

I must pause for a sec to show you his home on Merrimack Street. Dad’s family moved there from their house on Andover Street in 1939 or ’40. They lived there until the family of seven moved to New Haven in the fall of ’43.

This house – a sweet bungalow – was once featured in House Beautiful, a magazine that’s been around since 1896.

Dad remembers the house well. Built in 1913, it featured beautiful wood floors, a gorgeous fireplace, and loads of built-ins. In the backyard, “That’s where I trained to be a champion pole vaulter. Never got much higher than three feet, though.”

To the side of the house, “That was Dad’s Victory Garden plot.” And down on the sidewalk, they’d burn leaves in the fall and tuck in potatoes to roast.

The potatoes would pick up a smoky flavor from the leaves. Nothing better.

Dad’s boss was Mrs. Jennie A. Smith. He clearly recalls an important conversation he had with her.

“I asked for a raise,” he told me. He didn’t handle money and he didn’t have any cleaning responsibilities. But he was tasked with scooping that ice cream and pleasing the customers.

The boss’s response was simple:

You’re loafing most of the time. Why should I pay you more?

Now, that wasn’t Dad’s fault – the loafing part. If there wasn’t a customer, he had no other duties than to be at the ready for when the next one came through the door.

Suddenly, Mrs. Smith came up with a counter-offer: “I tell you what. I can change how I pay you. Rather than an hourly rate, I can pay you for every ice cream cone you make.”

Dad’s 12-year-old brain quickly did the math. Cones cost a nickel or a dime at the time. The profit margin (his, that is) on piece work would be slim.

She had me cold.

He turned her down.

The summer job only lasted a few months, but the business lesson lasted a lifetime. As did his craving for the frozen confection.

Last month, when Gary and I spent a week at Dad’s, he emphasized “light” in our menu planning. He’s in great shape, but hoped to take off a few pounds before winter set in. As Gary and I headed out the door to go grocery shopping, Dad called out a final addition to the list:

Oh, and some ice cream, please. Don’t overdo it, though. Three or four pints should be plenty.

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