As Grandpa slowly finished cranking the old wooden ice cream churn, the grandkids, drooling in their cups and bowls, eagerly awaited to devour the frozen contents much like lion cubs waiting to get at the entrails of their mom’s fresh zebra kill.

This was often the scene on many summer afternoons on our back porch when I was growing up on Shady Grove Road in Pickens.

One of my sisters, after marrying in the 1960s, moved with her new husband to the high mountains of North Carolina. After having two boys of her own, she would bring them down to visit their grandparents. Living in the relative coolness of the mountains, they found the Palmetto State a might hotter than expected. They delighted, however, in our summertime tradition of making homemade ice cream. It helped them cool off, as one of them said.

Sometimes on Saturday, but usually on Sunday after church and the big Sunday dinner, it was time for some ice cream.

There were always an abundance of grandkids around to help make the ice cream. “Help,” in this case, was a synonym for “get in the way.” Momma was the one who usually mixed the ingredients for the ice cream. She always used whole milk with three inches of cream on top, along with real sugar

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