Snow Cone

Emily walked very carefully down the sidewalk. She was attentive to the cracks and lines and very careful not to step on either. As she headed down Foxberry Road, her head angled sharply toward her little feet, she clutched a crumpled £5 note in her slightly sweaty hand and moved with a determination particular to 6-year-old girls with wiry pigtails.

She was going to buy a Snow Cone.

‘Snoh-cohnuh’ she said out loud to herself in a nice clear voice. ‘Snohwuh-cohnuh’, ‘Snow-Cone.’ She repeated the doubled-barreled word at varying volumes and speeds until it had moved in and become a part of her mouth.

She imagined it living in the cavity of her mouth like in a great big cave. Would Snow Cone melt? Or cry? And be afraid? She wondered, nearly forgetting to mind the lines and cracks of Foxberry Road’s sidewalk pavement.

The road abruptly veered right to run parallel to the tracks. She found herself face to face with the Elim Pentecostal Church on the corner. She stopped and looked up at the great big building. Did they eat Snow Cones on Shabbat, she wondered. She had heard Ms. Beldecky speak about Shabbat in school. She couldn’t quite remember what it was – or whose it was – but she knew it had something to do with Saturday. And today was Saturday. And it had something to do with God. And here was the church. So, she wondered with the logic of a 6-year-old – did they have Snow Cones at Elim Pentecostal Church?

Sensing the crumpled texture of the £5 note between her fingers, Emily remembered what she’d come for and resumed to her trek down Foxberry Road – this time forgetting the lines and cracks completely as she skipped through the late August heat toward Brown’s of Brockley.

Arriving at the entrance to the little shop, she paused and peered in at the bar that was replete with cakes and biscuits and neatly packaged red and black and white bags of roasted coffee. A cyclist in shiny gear brushed past her as she stood in the doorway, looking in. She could not see a Snow Cone anywhere. But perhaps it was behind the tall counter which she couldn’t see past, Emily thought and ventured in.

‘Babycinno?’ came a voice from behind the counter but – lost in thought about the whereabouts of the Snow Cone – Emily didn’t hear. ‘Hot chocolate?’ the stylishly bearded voice came again. She looked up, slightly startled.

There seemed to be a flurry of activity both around her and behind the bar, and nothing seemed familiar. One thing was certain – this place was not like the corner store so familiar to her from Massachusetts.

Bravely, she looked up into the dark and welcoming eyes of the stylish beard and asked most politely for ‘one grape Snow Cone please, sir!’ The beard began to heave up and down as laughter came babbling out like a mountain brook. A very strange sight, thought Emily, as she continued to stare at him with great seriousness and growing curiosity.

‘At Brown’s, we’ll make you one, little girl’ the kind dark eyes replied with a warm smile. And the owner of the friendly beard reached for a syrup and some crushed ice.

Snow Cone gripped tightly in hand – exchanged for the sweaty banknote – and with loose change in her dress pocket, Emily walked back up Foxberry Road – careful again to mind the lines and cracks. ‘Snow-Cone’ she repeated – almost singing to herself – as she mused on what on earth was so funny at Brown’s about her perennial summer treat.