When I was growing up, ice cream sandwiches were kind of my go-to treat when my godmother took me to the small country store just up the hill and down the street from her house. She drove a big blue station wagon that crunched across the gravel parking lot, where she pulled right up to the swinging wood framed screen door.
Even on blazing hot days, inside the store was dark and cool with the kind of floor that if you went barefoot, your feet would be black as soot after three steps. We never were allowed to go barefoot growing up, and when I think back to the floor of that store, I’m kind of glad about that. Continue Reading