The man and Mrs. Knapp greeted each other as old friends. She turned to us and said each of us could have an ice cream cone， any flavor we wished， her treat. Our enthusiasm was， naturally， boundless， and debate over whether to stick to the known delights of chocolate or vanilla or whether to experiment with the exotic Rocky Road or Blueberry raged among us. But we each settled on something， and the man scooped large scoops into waffle cones and handed them out. We savored and devoured.
Then he asked Mrs. Knapp， “ What would you like？” I like to think there was a twinkle in his eyes as he did and that what followed was a ritual between them， although the few kids who’d attended Mrs. Knapp’s classes in years before hadn’t been to the stand.
She paused thoughtfully， then said， “ I think I’ll have a cone with a scoop of each.”
He didn’ t bat an eyelash， but we did. A scoop of each？ All 10 flavors？ In 1 cone？ Mrs. Knapp， this woman who was smaller than the oldest of her students， was going to eat a 10-scoop ice cream cone？
With the same aplomb she displayed in the classroom， she took the mountain from him carefully and licked the top. She said something like“ Mmm” and smiled. And we watched， agog with envy， as she consumed every sweet mound， moving her tongue up and down from vanilla to strawberry to butter pecan， not losing a drop to the heat of the afternoon.
Afterward， we walked back to the school， perhaps just a mile or so away， packed up our things， said good-bye to her and each other， and walked home or waited for our parents to come.
Of course， I told my parents about the event， and， of course， they smiled. We drove past the school the following week. It was closed for the summer and Mrs. Knapp was off somewhere， with Mr. Knapp， I supposed， eating copious quantities of ice cream stacked in sky-high cones. I never saw her again， and though we looked， I never found that ice cream stand， either.