The toughest aspect of my summer job was keeping my right forearm clean. Although most middle-aged extroverts deem it necessary to insist that my arm must beget superhuman strength in order for me to scoop their wildly oversized ice creams, scooping ice cream is, in fact, a rather effortless process. Long hours spent scrubbing remnants of ice cream from my forearm, complaining about the air conditioning, and putting ginger ice cream in a cup because it is too soft for cones comprised my summer routine.

Vacationing near the beach in Eastham for the summer, I worked night shifts at Nauset Ice Cream, a local family business wedged between a bike shop and a liquor store. With mornings spent waist-deep in the ocean and evenings spent wrist-deep in ice cream, I grew accustomed to a relaxed way of life. Approximately one hundred miles away from my hometown, I was separated from all of my friends and activities that define my life experience during the school year, and was slowly familiarizing myself with my summer regimen. I had seemingly escaped the reality and familiarity of the student lifestyle, and was thus in pursuit of familiarity in a new environment.

One July afternoon, I gazed out the window at the blazing sun, which was perched high in the cloudless sky. From the corner of the small shop, I heard my coworker, Joanna, struggle to take orders from a group of young redheaded boys who hung like monkeys from their mother’s limbs and begged for more ice cream than she would allow. While the boys whined, an elderly man with a crooked smile and a body shaped like a pear waddled into the back of the shop. When I offered to serve him, he muttered, in a loose Boston accent, that his wife was always late and he would wait for her. Eventually, his wife, whose eyes hid behind dark sunglasses, trudged into the shop and positioned herself slightly behind him. The wrinkles on her expressionless face created in her a resemblance of a koala bear, and she remained in the back of the shop as her husband stepped forward and ordered.

He keenly observed the manner in which I molded his maple walnut ice cream, a flavor that is rarely ever ordered by men younger than fifty, into a round scoop. Once I delivered his ice cream, his gaze shifted to me. He asked which school I attended, and I explained that I would be a sophomore come the fall. I began to specify that my school was a private Catholic school, but he raised his meaty hand to indicate an understanding. With a chuckle, he extended his hand over the counter, and I shook it, very confused. “Class of ’68,” he stated with a smile so broad that his eyes closed fully. Astonished, I reciprocated his grin so that my face mirrored his. While he paid, we conversed enthusiastically about the recent changes to the school.

Before he exited, he dropped a rumpled ten dollar bill with a fold in the corner into a tip jar full of mostly coins. My eyes widened at his generosity, and he explained that it was “for the brotherhood.” After a summer devoid of reminders of school, this action dragged me back into reality. No matter how isolated I become, I will always be a part of the everlasting community that is my school. My encounter with this graduate serves as a perfect representation of my summer experience, as not only did I finally find familiarity, but this moment also exemplifies my reason for seeking summer employment: to build connections. Blessed with the opportunity to explore new territory and collect new experiences, I used my time during the summer to foster connections with unforgettable people.