I stopped by a hunting buddy’s house to borrow a few Boundary Waters supplies. While we gathered, his wife and two young children sat on wooden stools at the island in the kitchen as they licked chocolate and vanilla swirled ice cream from stubby cones.
Red haired, blue eyed and full of smiles, the younger boy had a puddle of brown and white ice cream pooling on the island, drips running down his tiny knuckles.
The older boy’s cone was perfectly manicured with lick marks swirled around the base of the cone. He spoke with his dad for a moment and a single drip started it’s march down the cone.
“You’re dripping,” said his dad.
“WHERE!?!” Replied junior as he twisted his ice cream and craned his neck to peer around to the far side of his cone.
He caught the drip and we chucked at his enthusiasm.
After a few minutes downstairs we made our way back into the garage with arms full of camping gear. As we made our way across the kitchen and towards the garage, my buddy said to me, “Watch this.”
As we closed the garage door behind us he leaned back and said to his son, “Hey, you’re dripping.”
The last thing I heard before the door shut was a feverish, “WHERE!?!”