Good night, moon; good night, cones

Mark Haas gently closes the door to the cone caddy, careful not to crack any of the golden cake ice cream cones inside. ¶ "Good night, cones," he says to the box. He walks away to grab the mop. ¶ Hannah Kippels, meanwhile, lowers the blinds to shut out the evening sky and tell the world -- or at least this corner of the world, at Dale Street and Maryland Avenue in St. Paul -- that Conny's Creamy Cone is turning in for the night. ¶ It's just past 9:30, closing time for the corner shack that serves up 24 (and more) flavors of soft-serve ice cream ($1.19 for a small chocolate, vanilla or twist; $1.49 for a small flavored cone; cash only). The fryer has been turned off, and the comforting smell of battered cheese curds no longer permeates the air. Conny McCullough has owned the joint for the past 13 years. It's a labor of love and an extension of her big heart and broad smile. Hers is a candy-red-and-white world from spring to late fall, and her No. 1 rule is simple: Never close the window until you're sure nobody else is coming.

Some nights the line stretches west along Maryland, past the bus shelter. Customers squeeze together on the red-and-white benches, over by the red-and-white petunias. The air buzzes, and not from mosquitoes.

But not this night.

The ball teams are already on their way to out-of-town tournaments, and other regulars, perhaps, are headed up North to their cabins.

A crisp breeze whisks through the stubborn golden light; the sun is not quite ready to set. Traffic motors by, and when the stoplight holds at red, exhaust mingles with the sweet and greasy smells wafting from Conny's.

The hand-painted menu and papier-mache ice cream cone on the roof give Conny's a small-town vibe. But it's entirely urban in location, surrounded by asphalt and concrete.

McCullough boasts that she's never had to post a help-wanted sign. She usually hires teens in their freshman year, and they keep coming back. Some stay on through college. Some pick up evening shifts after their day jobs.

Inside "The Cone," space is tight.

Tonight, the crew consists of Hannah, 19, the newly minted manager; Haas, 16, the lanky newbie with a blond mop-top; Matt Grewe, 25, who can't seem to leave Conny's despite his full-time day job, and Erin Wallner, 18, who just graduated from Como Park Senior High School and is heading to college soon in Southern California. Everyone wears red shirts emblazoned with their names. Shorts are encouraged -- it's a small space that can heat up in a hurry.

The appliances have names. "Herman" is the main ice-cream machine; a smaller version is called "Pee-Wee." The big freezer is "Skippy." Bumping into another person is inevitable, but the four working tonight are used to it. It's like a family, they all agree.

Pictures of workers past and present are plastered throughout, as are playful signs, such as: "Cone tip #621-A: 'Say Good Night' to the cones every p.m. shift."

And Haas is doing just that when someone notices a woman through the blinds.

Up go the blinds. Everyone springs into action. Matt takes the register, and the customer orders.

"Have a good night," Mark says cheerfully, handing a chocolate-covered cherry flurry to eager hands outside.

He sticks his head out into the balmy night air to see if anyone else is in sight.

Nope.

Once again, the windows are shut and locked. Once again, the blinds are drawn.

Mark closes the door to the cone caddy, making sure not to crack any of the golden cake ice cream cones inside.

"Good night, cones," he says, again.

The workers grab their tips, check their time cards, turn off the lights and lock the door.

The cones are safe inside their case. The next day will bring a cold awakening as the soft-serve service begins once again.

Chris Havens • 651-298-1542