Last August Andrew Loven

Kimball Farm once had the lightest atmosphere on earth. My problems would dissolve upon entering the ice cream stand and my concerns for the outside world would completely vanish. At work, I worried about simple things, like whether or not we had enough vanilla to get us through the night, or if I could manage to get the tempering room clean enough for the high expectations of the FDA. Now, as I stand in our gigantic walk-in freezer, I feel a painful sense of nostalgia. The bitter-cold of this small, plastic room seems to get to me a little more than it used to. As I walk past the cylindrical metal cans I am reminded of the pictures of them strewn about the accident scene, and I remember tossing them around in the freezer while working with my friend Scott.

The evening of August 2, 2002 was hazy and humid, and the oppressive heat seemed to slow everyone and everything to a crawl. I had just finished a non-stop, four-day recording session with my band in Northborough, which also doubled as a mini-vacation from work. Driving down 495 with our brand new CD blaring, I was interrupted by a call on my cell phone. Upon picking up my phone, I noticed I had over five missed calls, and knew that something must be up. I said...