Rosey's Ice Cream

So for those of you who have been to to our house, you know that it has had many incarnations over the years. From repair shop, to screen printing business, and most recently, to crack house. But before all those various tenants had paraded their way through my little home, it was Rosey's Ice Cream, a small factory owned by the Rosenberg family. Originally, it was a home delivery service started in the 1920's, satisfying Lititz homeowners with their delicious concoctions conveniently dropped at their front doors (add home delivery diet coke, and this is my idea of heaven). Later, it became the Scoop Shop, and kids would run over after school and choose their favorite selection from the wooden sign on the wall.

Chris and I are both enchanted by this story. Mostly because we are obsessed with ice cream. Little Girl #3 was almost named Rosey, and I think Chris still regrets that she wasn't. Next time, babe. (Ha.) I love homes with history; it's fun to imagine what life was like for the various people who lived and worked and scooped cherry vanilla in our home. Since we bought the place two years ago, we have casually been searching for "Rosey's" memorabilia. We have even met some of the Rosenberg family, who kindly shared copies of some of their collection with us.

I found this ad from 1951 online:

We didn't want to go overboard or anything and install 5 gallon buckets into our kitchen counters (or maybe we did), but a healthy dose of kitsch never hurt anybody. So since the Rosenbergs didn't want to part with their original Rosey's signs, I felt like I had to make a little cheater until I could sweet talk them into changing their minds.

It was always on the back burner, and I even added it to my "Summer Projects" memo board in my cloffice (closet+office).

See that-- "train for 1/2"? I start officially training for the OBX 1/2 marathon next week. The thought both nauseates and exhilarates me. Mostly nauseates, if I am gonna be honest.

So I killed a couple of projects with one proverbial stone, and made my wee little Rosey's sign, and a few yarn ball book page thingamabobs. My house is where old books come to die. For reals.

It'll do until I pry the real one out of the Rosenberg's cold, dead hands I get the real one.