If I wasn't such an ice cream fiend, the whole thing never would have happened. I really don't need any right now; I'm starting to look like an ice cream cone! But in a week or two the ice cream booths around here will close up and there'll be a long cold winter before I can once again stand sandal-clad on the deck and stoop down to order cones and sundaes through that sliding window.

I decided one more fling was in order after spending the day mowing the lawn and painting trim on the house. We were going to go to the Ice Cream Caboose after dinner, but Carolyn got busy making muffins for tomorrow's breakfast. Which, by the way, is another reason I don't need ice cream. But as the days are already growing shorter and the opportunities are dwindling, I opted to go pick us up something and bring it home. I didn't want to interrupt Carolyn's baking; she hates it when I mess with her buns.

I hit the road with Celtic music pouring from the truck's stereo. Dressed in jean shorts and the exotically-decorated T-shirt I bought in Florida last year I looked and felt like Mr. Summer Sunshine as we rolled up to the Caboose. The "Ice Cream Caboose," by the way, is a real place. An enterprising local lady bought a retired railroad caboose from the Chessie System, had it trucked to a lot next to the two-lane, and turned it into an ice-cream parlor. She does a big business between Memorial Day and Labor Day, and about the time the kids head back to school she closes up shop.

A specialty of the caboose is the "Locomotion," which is basically a stirred-up ice-cream sundae. They make them in all sorts of flavors: Oreo, Snickers, and Butterfinger are three of the favorites. I opted for "German Chocolate," a heavenly concoction made with chocolate, pecans, caramel, and coconut. Having some dietary sense, I ordered a "small." I ordered up a small low-fat "Moose Tracks" for Carolyn and sat down to wait.

The kids manning the Caboose chattered happily as they bent to the task of whipping up my goodies. I read the menu board while I waited. It wasn't a thing for the calorie-concious. I saw burgers, chili dogs, jumbo battered shrimp, and chicken tenders listed, but not a single salad, sparkling water, or tofu dish graced the menu.

My order came up in a moment. The Locomotion looked wonderful, its pecan-sprinkled peak rising above the rim of its cup. But I saw immediately that I'd neglected to order Carolyn's ice cream in a dish; the young man opened the window and held a cone out to me!

No problem, I said to myself with the assurance that comes from not thinking through a situation. Home was only three miles away. I could easily hustle home in three minutes while only inflicting minor damage to the speed limit. I accepted the order as it was offered and started for the truck. Before I reached the cab door I had to juggle the cone and the Locomotion to reach my keys, which were stuck in my cone-side pocket.

I placed the Locomotion in the cup holder and started up, hovering my left hand and the cone just above the steering wheel. Backing gently out of my spot, I shifted into Drive, coasted gingerly around the Caboose while watching four tiny ice-cream snitchers as they played nearby, and made my way to the driveway. Reaching through the steering wheel, I managed to trigger the wipers as I hit the turn-signal lever. "Now Truck," I said, "you know that's not funny." I clicked the wipers off and steered on to the two-lane for the return trip. Almost immediately something cold and wet dripped onto my pinky. The cone had already started to melt!

This can't be happening already! I thought as I accelerated down the highway. Sure enough, another drop landed on the back of my hand. I licked them off, carefully watching the road. Home was just over two minutes away; I pressed slightly harder on the gas. Another drip hit my knuckle. It was too late to go back and ask for a bowl. I moved the cone back away from the steering wheel.

Just then something wet and very cold hit my chest. Somehow the top scoop of the cone had lept from its lofty spire, probably assisted by the breeze from the open window, and smacked me just below the right pec, rolling down my shirt and into my lap, leaving a trail of Moose Tracks all the way down my front!

"Freaking A!!" I yelled, grabbing the glob of ice cream and sticking it back on the cone. Barely slowing down I turned at the dirt road, steering with the heel of my right hand because it was now the only non-Moose-Tracked appendage I had left on that side. Halfway home, I thought as I grabbed another mutinous glob of ice cream and stuffed it back where it started. I hauled down that dirt road, hoping that the neighbors had their dogs tied up and the kids in the house. The cone was in full China Syndrome melt-down mode as I approached the stop sign. Not this time! I thought as I slowed down, watching for cars in general but especially for the Sheriff's Patrol.

Half a mile left! The wheels barely touched the ground as I bounced down the road. One thought stood alone on my brain: Give this stupid cone to Carolyn and let her deal with it! I palmed the wheel and bounced into the driveway. I found one clean knuckle with which to push the door-opener button. It didn't open on the first try and I almost knocked the opener off the visor. "Move!" I shouted at the door, the very garage door that I hung myself and was so proud of, and at the moment would have driven through without even flinching to get myself in the garage. I punched the button more fervently; slowly the door rose.

The door finished its ascent as I stopped in the driveway. I popped the truck door open with my pinky, somhow unhitched the seat belt and climbed out. Just then there was a strong tug on my arm; the seat belt was tangled around my elbow and threatened to knock the cone out of my hand! I grabbed the cone with my right hand and untangled myself, not even stopping to contemplate what nearly happened.

Carolyn had just put her muffins in the oven when I came through the door. I offered her the drippy ice cream cone with my sticky right hand while my sticky left hand untucked my Moose-Tracked shirt. She looked at me in horror. "You're going to have to pre-treat this," I said as I undressed my way into the laundry room. I stopped in the bathroom just long enough to wash the goo from my hands and arms. And chest. And belly. Then I went to the bedroom and found some clean clothes.

Decent once more, I remembered my Locomotion out in the truck. I returned to the driveway and opened the door. The icky, sticky horror had repeated itself: That luscious little pecan-crusted peak had melted into the cup holder and flooded the center console!

I was out of anger. My rage was all used up. All I had left was resignation. I just retrieved the now-semi-liquid Locomotion, took it over to the garden hose, and rinsed the outside of the cup. I ate the German-chocolate goodie without much joy, knowing that a good half-inch of it was waiting, inedible, in the truck.

There are so many lessons I can draw from the episode. Don't buy ice cream you don't need. Next time ask for a cup. Wear gloves and an old shirt. But this is probably the most important one: Watch out for late-season ice cream...it doesn't last very long!