Sheehan's Ice Cream Parlor

I don’t recall the exact age, but at some childhood point my parents were able to make me understand the concept of family and it helped, because I had often asked (in my head) who the heck are they talking about? Or who is that? The knowledge happened at the beginning of the end of the “children should be seen, not heard” section of the Sheehan book of child rearing just after the “sshhh go out and play” chapter.

By sheer numbers, the Sheehan clan was the first to imprint on my prepubescent brain. Numero uno was my grandfather (grampa) Michael Sheehan and my memory of him is one of being the chief, head, principal, boss, commander, captain, figurehead, controller, superior and kingpin. He was the leader only with help of my grandmother (gramma) Mary Sheehan, who held the home side role of love giver, tactile heart, doctor, nurse cook and bottle washer for nine children. One of them, the youngest, was my dad (papa).

Grampa Sheehan was, according to family lore, the seventh son of a seventh son which by today’s definition is a superstition that has been around for centuries. Supposedly they are born with a veil around them that his mother kept in a chest, I never saw it or her. Such a child would have special powers, like healing the sick, seeing the future and communicating with the dead. Totally unsupported by science. Our Irish history still considers a seventh son of a seventh son to be special. The superstition is likely based on the number seven, long considered to be a magical number. In many cultures, seven is associated with luck, power, and perfection. It is also the number of days in a week, the number of notes in a musical scale, and the number of deadly sins. A number of books and movies have been done on the subject and continues to fascinate and entertain people today.

The magic I remember was mouthwatering experiences tasting many styles and types of ice cream that the curator, my grampa Sheehan served up at Sheehan’s Ice Cream Parlor on Main Street in the Campello end of Brockton, Massachusetts. Grampa Sheehan had white hair, glasses, and he had a forward tilt from reaching to scoop ice cream for many years. He created his own recipes for the ice cream he made from scratch in the back room. A room which my papa and his brothers had also worked as boys, and before modern ice cream making equipment made it a one-man operation.

As boys, my year younger brother Chris and I would use the store as our designated pick-up point after going to the movies at the Colonial or Brockton or Centre Theaters up town and walking south to the Campello end of Brockton. Grampa Sheehan would let us use his phone to call for a ride and then tell us stories of what Brockton the “Shoe City” was like in the 1920’s. He would bet unsuspecting customers that he could guess the color of the next car to go by the store, which as Chris and I learned was black, only color in the 1920’s.

Grampa Sheehan was soft spoken and up to date with the news as the Brockton Enterprise Newspaper was always open on the counter when we arrived. He would ask questions of the day with the expectation of getting us to reveal which stage of man we had reached and always rewarded with whichever delight we would like to eat.

The place was never crowded when we were there but I suspect that there had been plenty between the twenties and the early sixties. Enough to raise nine children through World War II, and saving some money for college for those who chose to go that route. Papa told us how grampa put his car up on blocks during the war, giving up the use of gasoline and rubber for the cause of America. Papa and siblings didn’t like it, when they would have to walk to St. Margaret’s up the street or much further West Bridgewater, to visit Aunt Lou, Gramma Sheehan’s sister. It resulted in little phrases they would humorously force down my generation like “if you get tired of walking, run awhile” or the aforementioned children’s law, they should be seen, not heard.

We could have a coke, the old-fashioned way, pressing the coke syrup pump twice into a cone shaped Lily cup and then pulling back the black throttle like handle dispensing the perfect amount of soda water to make a perfect tasting coke, I know “Magic” right?

The shop was very dim, with old ceiling fans turning slowly and fly catching paper also hanging with deceased bodies of your average 1920 something fly wings only propelled by the fan blade. It was the early 1960's but the walls and ceiling were that printed tin like metal originally painted white, but after many years had given themselves over to that nasty cigarette stain color like a sickly yellow whitish sticky phlegm mixture.

At the rear of Sheehan’s Ice Cream Parlor, on the back wall hung a pair of wooden night sticks, crossed and centered. Grampa Sheehan, Brockton patrolman, part time, remember he was Irish and had eleven mouths to feed. For my brother and I, unfortunately there were no tall tales of how he single-handedly saving Brockton from certain destruction.

From the sidewalk, you could view a cardboard sign of a glass of Coca Cola with mint green backdrop and the words in red “Be Really Refreshed”, this would change every few months. Additionally, a neat row of a dozen or so full bottles of Coke in green bottles, flanked by full Simpson Spring bottles with all their flavors. My favorites were the orange soda and pale-dry ginger ale, while brother Chris was the connoisseur of Moxie and Birch Beer.

Inside the door, there were booths running along the left wall, and fountain style marble countertop all down the right side, and the floor basic black and white checkerboard style, clean but marked with the years of heal marks, dirt not to mention ice cream droppings and cone crumbs.

Grampa Sheehan as I recall him standing there in his chino pants and white shirt, a bit overweight, had a presence about him that was hard to describe. Always wished, even then, that I had known him when he was younger like papa. I know that he was greatly respected by my aunts and uncles, and I got the impression that he ruled firmly but fairly asking only you do your absolute best no matter what and that honoring gramma Sheehan was of paramount importance to him, but I always felt something missing.

Grampa Sheehan died when I was twelve and what I remember most is that it was first time I ever saw my Papa cry, and I did too; I remember how concentrated Mama was in helping the grief of our rock.

As time moved forward and I began a job driving for Gilmore’s Market delivering groceries in the same neighborhood and city that my dad had grown up, I met two of Grampa Sheehan’s brothers Joe who lived across the street from Gilmore’s on Montello Street and Frank who lived in an apartment also across the street from Gilmore’s. Each one was elderly when I met them, and each spoke of my grandfather in loving almost saint like terms. Likeable and easy to laugh and smile replicas of Grampa Sheehan, they were. (Sorry for the Yoda-like appellation)

I saw in my papa lots of what he absorbed from his dad and wonder now if there was something missing.

What I do know is I write of these things so that no one would wonder what’s missing in me in the years long after I’ve gone to heaven. What I also know is you have the magic in you to forgive and forget your past and the same of others, while not worrying about the future and joyfully fulfilling your life in the moment regardless of age or any of the new age words used to describe you.

Have some ice cream, it’ll do you good.