Jeff Miller - Scoop: Notes from a Small Ice Cream Shop

Notes from a

Small Ice Cream Shop

JEFF MILLER

2014 by Jeff Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to the Minnesota Historical Society Press, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102-1906.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

International Standard Book Number

ISBN: 978-0-87351-943-4 (paper)

ISBN: 978-0-87351-944-1 (e-book)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Miller, Jeff, 1963

Scoop : notes from a small ice cream shop / Jeff Miller.

pages cm

Summary: This is the true story of a lawyer and his partner who give up their corporate lives in London to run an ice cream shop and small inn in Wisconsins north woods. It is a tale of starting over, slowing down, and ice cream.Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-87351-943-4 (paperback) ISBN 978-0-87351-944-1 (ebook)

1. Miller, Jeff, 1963 2. Cooper, Dean. 3. Ice cream parlorsWisconsinHayward. 4. Bed and breakfast accommodationsWisconsinHayward. 5. Wests Hayward Dairy (Firm) 6. McCormick House (Inn : Hayward, Wis.) 7. Career changesCase studies. 8. BusinessmenWisconsinHaywardBiography. 9. Hayward (Wis.)Biography. 10. Hayward (Wis.)Social life and customs. I. Title.

F589.H39M55 2014

977.516dc23

2014011350

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I was not prone to drastic actions. I did not rush into the unknown. After fifteen years as a more or less effective lawyer, I approached decisions with a certain caution. I not only weighed the pros and cons but also examined all likely consequences and reasonably foreseeable risks. Looking back, I wondered what could have prompted me to take those initial steps down a path that would alter the course of the rest of my life armed with only an optimistic hunch and knowledge that turning back was not an option.

It was September, and the day was warm and summerlike. The town of Hayward, Wisconsin, was having its annual Fall Festival. A few of us bought ice cream and sat on a bench in front of a small ice cream shop painted like a red barn.

Deanmy partnerand I had come over from London to check on the renovations of a cabin we had bought that year on the shores of nearby Teal Lake. We met up with some friends, Matt and Dave, who also had a home in the area. I grew up with Matt in Chaska, a small town outside Minneapolis. Matt was also a lawyer, who had given up a career in Washington, DC, to return to his native Minnesota. Every Friday, though, he and Dave rushed to their lake home near Hayward in order to catch the fish fry at their favorite restaurant, and they convinced us of the merits of buying property in Wisconsin despite the impractical distance from London.

Isnt this the life, Dave said, looking at a spoonful of maple nut ice cream. Now that you have a place on the lake, shouldnt you move here? he continued. I know you bought the place because of your mom, but you might like it.

Matt laughed. That would never happen, he said. Matt knew that from a very young age, I was determined to see the world and had no intention of moving home. I blamed it on a subscription to National Geographic my mother once bought me.

Oh, well definitely be back here for at least two or three weeks a yearespecially in the summer and fall, like this, I said. It will be a great break from work. I looked at Dean to see if he agreed. He nodded.

Id like to come in the winter when the lakes are frozen, Dean said. We could cut a hole in the lake and fish like your brothers do. Dont you think it would be fun, bundling up in warm jumpers and drinking hot cocoa? Dean, like many Brits, loved all things American and was eager to try those activities weather and common sense rendered impossible in England.

I doubt theyd be drinking cocoa, Matt said. And youd freezeno matter how much cashmere you had on.

Well, Id still like to try it, Dean replied and looked over at me. Whats that blue ice cream youre eating? Dean asked.

She said it was Blue Moona Wisconsin specialty. The girl behind the counter had failed to tell me the flavor tasted of the sweet milk left at the bottom of a bowl of Fruit Loops. By the funny looks I was getting from the Blue Moonlicking children sharing the bench with me, no one past the age of puberty was taken seriously eating a Blue Moon ice cream cone.

Is it any good?

Its greatvery sweet.

My phone rang while I was licking my ice cream cone. I managed to retrieve it from the side pocket of my cargo shorts.

Unknown Caller meant it had to be a work-related call from London.

Hello, I said. Notwithstanding the combination of bright sun and Blue Moon, my heart began to race, and I was taken thousands of miles away. The caller was a senior partner from a London law firm. They had reviewed the work of an internal investigation we had carried out of some infractions of U.K. securities trading regulations. The actions of the banks traders were inadvertent rather than designed to rig the markets. The partner said that the U.K. authorities were unlikely to take any action that would result in monetary fines, but they could issue an embarrassing public rebuke.

Really, I said. I fished for a pen in my other pocket but could not manage to hold my ice cream cone. I walked to the corner and tossed the unfinished cone in the trash. I scribbled some notes on an ice creamstained napkin and hung upso much for my holiday.

Dean and our friends were finishing their cones. Dean looked at me. After twelve years, he knew from the tone of my voice when something wasnt right.

Bad news?

Could be better. I have to make some calls. I excused myself and walked to the car. At the corner, I looked up the street.

I like the sign, I said, pointing to the nostalgic neon sign in the shape of an oversized waffle cone that hung from the buildings corner.

While it did not seem very significant at the time, I wondered what would have happened if I had not received a phone call that day and had been able to enjoy the rest of my ice cream cone like anyone else on a brief break from his unfulfilling job. More than likely, I would have returned to the office, showed some photographs of me sticking out my blue-stained tongue, and planned my next holiday.

The months that followed were muddled, as though I were operating in a fog. Dean and I returned to London, where we made big decisions involving buying and selling property, signing contracts, and transferring large sums of money more by the seats of our pants than by my typical and rational decision-making process.

These events culminated on a cold London morning in mid-February. I was about to take the final step to a new life that, with luck, a low cholesterol diet, and moderate exercise, would last another forty years, provided my pounding heart did not give out on me before the lift doors opened.