Frozen Cups and Grace: A New Orleans Reflection on Gratitude

Frozen Cups and Grace: A New Orleans Reflection on Gratitude

How a Garage Freezer, Porch Talk, and Three Wise Souls Taught Me the Sweetness of Thankfulness

By Kateb Shunnar

Gratitude—let me tell you, it ain’t something you stock up in a closet and dust off on Thanksgiving, thinking you done your part. No, gratitude is more like a drink you sip on the porch when the air’s thick and sticky and you’re sweating buckets, but you realize you feel alive anyway. Growing up at 2688 Jonquil, I learned that lesson early, walking past Celestine’s garage where that big old freezer hummed like it had secrets, like it knew more about me than I did. That freezer stood out there, full of frozen cups red, purple, and that mysterious orange flavor nobody ever quite named and me, sticky hands, proud as a kid with his first bicycle, helping her pour Kool-Aid into those Styrofoam cups. And while we waited for them to freeze solid, we’d sit on the porch, the kind of porch where the sun beats you down in the afternoon and the breeze is more of a suggestion than a relief. Celestine would settle into that creaky chair of hers, look out over the block and say, “Baby, you know, most folks don’t understand what they got until they start lookin’ at what they don’t.” She said it like she was handing me a heavy, gold-leafed present and I was supposed to unwrap it slow.

I knew we didn’t have much didn’t have big cars or fancy vacations or those Instagram-perfect moments people talk about but we had something richer. Celestine, with her frozen-cup hustle, her laughter that rolled through the room like a summer thunderstorm, her way of seeing beauty in the smallest things. Then there was Marva—my mama—who kept the lights on, the house upright, the lessons going without making a fuss. She didn’t use fancy words. She worked. She prayed. She reminded me quietly that humility, kindness, patience they ain’t signs of weakness.

They are the backbone. “Be thankful,” she’d say, “even when you don’t feel like it, and especially when you do.” She had that calm grit in her voice, the kind you trust even when you think you know better. And let’s not forget Paw-Paw Wallace. Now, Paw-Paw had that look in his eye, like he knows things you've yet to learn. He didn’t holler often, but when he did speak up it was with one of those lines that sound simple but come loaded: “Don’t wait till life hands you roses. Pick the weeds and be grateful you still standing in the garden.” And I swear, that man taught me more by shutting up than most folks teach you by talking.

So yeah I’ve got these three souls in my life, and I don’t say that lightly. When I think about gratitude, I think about them. I think about the freezer in the garage humming away, I think about sticky fingers and laughing at how the orange flavor never tasted like any fruit we knew. I think about sitting with Celestine, the sun dipping down, cicadas humming and her telling me stories some of them true, some of them with a twist of folklore, all of them lessons wrapped in sugar and syrup and summer heat.

I think about Marva quietly doing her thing behind the scenes, the kind of strength not shown on billboards or flashy posts, but felt deep in your bones. I think of Paw-Paw Wallace staring out the window with his coffee, saying nothing and everything.

Here’s the thing I realized: Gratitude ain’t passive. It ain’t saying “thank you” once and thinking you’re done. It’s a discipline, a practice, like brushing your teeth or wiping your feet before entering the house. You’ve got to train your mind, your heart, your soul, to notice what’s there especially the things that feel ordinary because those are the ones folks tend to forget. I learned to write down three good things before I slept simple stuff, like the orange-flavored frozen cup didn’t leak this time, or Paw-Paw told a joke and didn’t even try to hide the grin, or Mama fixed dinner with whatever was in the fridge and we all still laughed. And I tell you, even those small wins shift the air around you, make your pillow feel softer, your breath a little deeper.

One day Celestine told me: “If you ever stop being thankful for the sunrise, you’ll find yourself starin’ at the dark too long.” She meant that gratitude is as much about noticing the beginning of something as it is about surviving the end of something. So I wake up now and try to catch the sunrise, even if I’m grumbling because I had to set the alarm. I try to breathe in the silence before the day starts, the birds or the traffic or whatever sound breaks it first, and say thank you. Not because everything’s perfect, but because I woke up. Because I can still see. Because I still have a scratch of hope in me.

I’ll admit I’ve had times when life felt like a broken record stuck on one note: bills, worry, comparisons, “Why not me?” nights. But even then, I remembered the garage freezer, remembered that orange mystery flavor, remembered Marva’s quiet strength and Paw-Paw’s brownie-smile wisdom. I remembered that I once made something simple beloved, and that means I can do it again. Gratitude pulled me out. It knocked on my door like the old stranger in one of Celestine’s stories unexpected, unannounced, but real.

Speaking of stories here’s one I’ll admit, with a little sarcasm, because what’s life without a little laugh at ourselves. In Celestine’s voice I’ll tell you: There was this lady call her Tilly. Now, Tilly lived in a neighborhood where the birds complained about the traffic and the traffic complained about the birds. Tilly would grumble about the sun being too bright, the rain too wet, the coffee too hot, the furniture too old. One afternoon, an old man shows up at her door with a shiny pot, says “This here’s a gratitude pot. Cook in it and your food will double only if you say thank you while you stir.” Tilly laughs, takes the pot, and that night throws in rice with a half-hearted “Thanks, I guess.” Next thing: bam the rice doubles. Tilly’s eyes go wide. So next day she goes full hog beans, sausage, shrimp, whatever. She forgets to say thank you, gets too full of herself pot blows up, beans everywhere, walls look like Mardi Gras threw up in her kitchen. The old man returns, shakes his head: “Child, gratitude multiplies blessings greed just multiplies mess.” That story always made me smile, on the porch, sweat dripping, Celestine sipping her frozen cup. But the lesson stuck. It’s real. Gratitude needs that little “thank you.” A little humility. A little wink that says, “Yeah, I got this, but I ain’t doing it alone.”

Now, you might be thinking, “Well, that’s all nice for old folks with cola-flavored ice cups,” but I’ll tell you: it matters. When you’re knee-deep in bills, when the job’s shaky, when the heart feels heavy you still got something. You still got a breath. You still got a friend, or a memory, or a frozen cup flavor that tastes like childhood. Use that. Grab onto that. Let it anchor you. Because gratitude isn’t about ignoring the hard stuff it’s about letting the good stuff fight harder in you.

I remember one scorching July day a typical New Orleans afternoon where the heat’s so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. I was helping Celestine load the cups into the freezer in the garage. My shirt stuck to my back. The syrup from the cups dripped on the floor. I got sticky. She got to laughing at me because I was whining about how hot it was. She said, “You think you woke up this morning just to sweat? No, baby, you woke up to a chance take it.” I stared at her like she had jumped into a philosophy textbook. But she winked and handed me a frozen cup. I took a sip and realized the cold sweetness cooled more than my tongue it cooled my worry just a little. I haven’t forgotten that day. The freezer, the garage, the laughter, the sugar, the lesson.

Mama, she’d walk by us then, carrying groceries, and she’d say, “Y’all better appreciate what you got before the what-if’s get a chance to move in.” She meant that doubt likes an open door. Gratitude locks it out. Simple. Real. Real simple. And if you lock gratitude in? It’ll guard you like a sentinel when storms blow in.

Paw-Paw Wallace he’d watch us from the window, grin when we weren’t looking. He told me once: “Son, you’ll never get rich by countin’ what you don’t have. You’ll only get rich by countin’ what you got, then askin’ for more of the good kind.” And by “good kind” he meant the kind you give away. The kind you don’t hide. The kind that laughs at the sun, cries at the moon, appreciates the noise, even the traffic, even the cicadas. Because when you stop hearing the cicadas? That’s when your ears get lazy and so does your heart.

So I practiced. I made a little habit of it. Three good things before bed. Sometimes it was lame: the orange cup didn’t leak. Sometimes big: Mama smiled when I walked in the door. Sometimes deep: Paw-Paw told a story and meant it. And each time I wrote them down or just thought them, I felt my spirit shift. A little lighter. A little freer. Maybe a little stickier from syrup, but freer all the same.

Mind you I’m not saying we’re on some plush cloud of perfect gratitude all the time. Ha! No, there are days when I’m flat tired, when the bills laugh louder than I do, when the memories sting instead of soothe. Those days you gotta work harder at gratitude. It might not feel honest at first. It might taste like medicine. But it’s medicine. And it works. So I breathe, close my eyes, think of Celestine pouring those cups, hear her laughter, hear Marva’s quiet voice, feel Paw-Paw’s calm presence. I say thank you. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because I remember.

Because I know I wouldn’t be here without them. And that alone is enough to fill a house even one with a freezer humming in the garage. The truth is, I’ve seen what no gratitude looks like. I’ve watched folks with everything and nothing really, still act poor in spirit. So I made a choice: I’m gonna act rich. Rich in thanks. Rich in humility. Rich in compassion. Rich in laughter. And not the shiny-car version of rich but the porch-sittin’, dip-your-feet-in-the-grass version of rich.

And here’s another thing: gratitude invites you to slow down. It doesn’t rush you. It says, “Hey you. Stop. Look. Taste. Feel this.” The sun rising. The breeze shifting. The taste of that orange frozen cup. The sound of Marva humming in the kitchen. The shadow of Papaw’s chair on the concrete. Notice it. Sit with it. Say thank you. Then maybe sip your cup again and wink at the memory. Because life is messy. Life is loud. Life is sticky. But it’s also sweet. And if you can remember the sweet while you’re navigating the mess, you give yourself a gift.

Sometimes I wander and think about what my life would’ve been like without those three: Celestine, Marva, Paw-Paw. No freezer in the garage. No syrup drip on my fingers. No laughter echoing down the block. I’d probably still have gotten by but I bet I’d have missed something vital. Gratitude. That little spark. Maybe I’d have something, but I wouldn’t have this. And “this” matters. It matters more than any paycheck, any trophy, any “look what I got” moment. Because trophies get dusty. Gratitude stays alive.

I tell folks, “You can’t believe in lack and expect a harvest.” You got to believe in plenty even when your pockets are empty. And you do that by being thankful for what you have, not what you wish you had. That’s how you open the door to more. And don’t mistake that for being naïve. You can be real about the pain. Real about the struggle. But also real about the blessing. In that balance you’ll find peace.

So yeah, I don’t have all the richness the world offers. But I had Celestine, Marva, Paw-Paw Wallace. And I got the freezer humming in the garage as a sound-track, the porch as my classroom, syrup on my fingers as my badge of training. And because of them I’m practicing gratitude not as a trend, not as a feel-good line, but as a core way I walk through this world. One frozen cup at a time. One breath at a time. One “thank you” quietly under my breath when I think no one’s listening. They are listening. More than you know.

If I died today now don’t go thinkin’ I’m looking for sympathy I’d be fine with it. Because I’d tried. I’d served. I’d loved. I’d been grateful. I’d lived. And I’d sipped that syrup-sweet frozen cup and seen the sunshine, and heard the moon call my name. I’d been myself. And that’s enough.

Gratitude is the fruit of life. It’s the nourishment of the soul when the pantry’s bare. It’s the attitude that sees the sunrise, the moonlight, the breath in your chest. It’s a smile when you don’t feel like smiling. It’s kindness when others are bitter. It’s the whisper you say in the dark: “Thank you, Lord, for this day.”

So I walk on, with their voices in my head, their lessons in my heart, and my own sticky fingers from the freezer in the garage as my reminder: This is the good life. Messy, imperfect, full of sticky syrup and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Baby, you already got more than enough.

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