The local ice cream shop had moved locations, moving onward and upward; leaving a quaint, over-used shop on the main strip in the only place, which, at that time, I had ever really known.
"Mom, how much do you think it would cost to rent that?" my naive eleven-year-old self asked.
As anyone would, my mother though nothing of my question, I was young, and my relations with, what used to be, my favorite ice cream shop could be nil.
But, go back. Go back to where you were at ten, eleven or twelve. Everything was possible. Everything was larger than life and everything was real in a way that we often forget today. When tainted, we were tainted in earth shattering ways, as it was often a first hit at an untouched soul.
Earlier that week, we had gone to a food shelter. I had heard about it. I had known about it. But, it couldn't be true. Not in De Pere. Not in Wisconsin. We wouldn't let that happen. But, we did. And it was up-kept, un-tamely and poorly managed.
People are people. It's just that easy. I knew it then and I know it now. My eleven-year-old self was broken, crushed and motivated.
I am not sure if my mother ever knew this, but on our next drive through town, right below 'For Sale' was a number, I jotted it down and when no one was home, I called. The starting price, I don't recall, but I do remember asking several times for the kind sir to repeat it - as I was adding up how many ice cream cones that was… more than I had ever eaten, that is for sure.
The plan was outlined in my journal, and I even started, regardless of how many ice cream cones it cost. Letters went out to my favorite musicians, the Mayor, Packer players, foundations, my favorite companies (the address is right on the label!) and of course, Oprah. Out of thirty or so letters that I sent... I had one response and it was a 'good luck, kid!'. Lemonade stands, art sales, and emptying my piggy bank, I was sure it would add up, that it would start to be something. And when I got close enough, I was sure the local news would jump in rally community support and we would be fine.
It would be a community home. No one should be homeless. There would be clothes (yes, I cleaned out my closet and the piles were ready to go), food and love. The world didn't have to be such an ugly place. Eleven or not, I could do something.
My eleven year-old dreams of the community home never came true. With a little help and organization, I found a way to volunteer regularly helping the community. Every time I drive by that spot, I see what I envisioned then.
If only we could all go back to our eleven year-old hearts. Back to the passion, the un-adulterated lives that we could all be living.
Here is to going back to seeing things through the eyes of an eleven year-old.
