Turn a moment into a story.

Just outside Darrington, WA, a town of about 500 people, two kids rode their bikes to the "County Store." The store was three miles from my cabin. It was along the highway turnoff to the cabin, and it was the only non-residential building between the cabin and Darrington (which was another five miles down the highway).

Everytime I went to the cabin, I would get to bring one friend, and the first thing we would do when we arrived is ride our bikes to the store. The journey was harrowing. Down the steep private road into "Blind Man's turn"-- where it was a roll of the dice. You might coast a few hundred feet past the chickens up ahead on the right side of the pot-hole ridden road, or you might end up in the hospital if a pickup truck met you and your bike at the bottom of the hill.

The next obstacle was the deep-gravel turn that separated the private roads from the paved road to the highway. My sister had once raced my dad and I home from the river. She got a head start because we were riding the motorcycle. Sara didn't want to lose to her younger brother, so she took the turn at break-neck speed--and almost broke her neck. She wound up in the hospital with gravel chunks and eventually 20 stitches in her right knee.

Once you get to the paved road, you'd think you'd be in the clear... but you'd be mistaken. There was still over two miles to the Country Store, and a half a mile ahead was the toughest challenge yet: the rabid dogs. Now, they might not have actually been rabid, but as soon as I passed the yellow one-story house on the right side of the paved road, with about a dozen broken down cars in its yard, the dogs got my scent. And then it was off to the races. Barking and yelling would always ensue. Peddling as fast as I could, I'd see the dogs race from their backyard onto the paved road behind me. I could hear their collars clinking with their metal tags not more than ten feet away. I was sure that one of the dogs was going to grab the shorts off my buns one day.

After the dogs gave up, and I had worked up a good sweat, it was pretty much clear-sailing to the store. There were a few more attractions on the way, including a gigantic trampoline that I always wanted to jump on, but never did; and a model railroad track that brought its owner the mail from the street-side mailbox every day. On lucky days we'd get to see the locomotive going about its retrieval task. Past the railroad was the long straight-stretch to the store.

You could see the store from almost a mile away, with just a flat, paved road between me and my prize. It took forever. Then, when I was 25 feet from two scoops of ice cream for only 50 cents, I still had to wait and cross the highway. Cars whizzing by at 60mph made the weight almost unbearable, knowing that the ice cream was so close. Finally, I'd toss my bike onto the ground and run into the store.

Rickity wooden boards covered the ground inside the store. I only took a few steps into the store, directly to the ice cream display on the right. A baby scoop of chocolate or Rocky Road is what I would get. 50 cents for two scoops. Unbeatable. It wasn't 1936 either, it was the 1990. Baskin Robbins double scoops cost $3, easy. But this gem of a store still only charged two quarters.

Andrew would never settle for a "baby" cone, oh no, he'd go for the "double," which in Country Store-speak meant at least four or five scoops of ice cream. And no matter what size cone I got, or what size cone he got--he would always finish before me. That is why I would usually just get a baby cone (not that I could finish more, anyways). Then, fat-bellied and happy, we'd face the journey back to the cabin.