The elementary school in which I received my first- through sixth-grade learning was a long, straight brick building with cement steps; an auditorium with heavy, red velvet drapes; a tiny library guarded by a grumpy gray-headed spinster; and a cafeteria in the basement down a flight of creaky wooden steps. For afternoon recess, we clomped down the stairs, stepped up on a wooden stool that lifted us to a small square window and choose an ice cream — either an orange creamsicle, a chocolate fudgecicle, an ice cream sandwich or a Nutty Buddy. Clyde, the school’s janitor, ran the ice cream concession.