I was about 13. My father frequently took me on short outings on Saturdays. Sometimes we went to a park, or to a marina (码头) to look at boats. My favorites were trips to junk stores，where we could admire old electronic stuff. Once in a while we would buy something for 50 cents just to take it apart.

On the way home from these trips, Dad frequently stopped at the Dairy Queen for l0cent ice cream cones. Not every single time: just often enough. I couldn't expect it, but I could hope and pray from the time we started heading home to that critical corner where we would either go straight for the ice cream or turn and go home empty handed. That corner meant either mouthwatering excitement or disappointment.

A few times my father teased me by going home the long way. “I'm just going this wry for variety.” he would say, as we drove by the Dairy Queen without stopping. It was a game, and I was well fed, so we’re not talking torture (折磨) here.

On the best days he would ask, in a tone that made it sound novel and spontaneous, “Would you like an ice cream cone?” and I would say, “That sounds great, Dad!” I’d always have chocolate and he’d have vanilla. He would hand me 20 cents and I would run in to buy the usual. We'd eat them in the car. I loved my dad and I loved ice cream — so that was heaven.

On one fateful day, we were heading home, and I was hoping and praying for the beautiful sound of his offer. It came. “Would you like an ice cream cone today?” “That sounds great, Dad!”

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But then he said, “It sounds good to me too, Son. How would you like to treat today?”
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My father just said, “Okay, Son.”
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