Living on Decker Road in the past, there were log trucks downshifting through the curves marking the quarter hours; cross country bicycle teams shouting for joy as they made the descent; every kid riding a new motorcycle pumping as much gasoline into the engine as their body was pumping adrenaline into their heart; and every summer the MG sport car clubs took on the hill, sounding for all the world like a swarm of mosquitoes.
But Aumsville is quiet.
Then one hot afternoon I heard the sound.
The music had changed. More digital. Not as loud.
But it still triggered the same love/hate response as it did back during those hot Iowa summers.
It was a truck.
Not just any truck.
The ice cream truck!
I was flush.
I could buy a whole box-full if I wanted….did they take DiscoverCard?
I was ready to dash and splurge.
But then the memories came back…Barefoot kid doing the hot-foot hop on the molten August asphalt. Shouting back at the house “MOM, HE’S ALMOST HERE!” My mother, head completely armored in metal hair-curlers, clad in slippers and a house coat, doing a perfect Groucho Marx run down to the street. Her eyes dart left and right—are the neighbors watching? When she arrives, we both inspect the contents of her red clam-shell coin purse.
The truck stops. The chimes play on.
The inventory never changed. It was a truck-full of disappointment and unmet expectations. If I sound bitter, I still am.
Nutty Buddies—cost too much.
Little sundaes in a plastic cup—taste wasn’t too bad, but the feeling of that dry wooden paddle on my tongue still haunts me.
Snow cones—These things had refrozen so many times that they were solid ice. You had to eat them gopher-style. And the paper cone that held them might have been an early Charmin prototype. Your best bet was to bite off the bottom of the cone and suck out the liquid as it melted.
Popsicles—Yeah, they were splitable, you could share them—such a high cost for friendship. It did teach me some valuable math skills—-I knew exactly how many times I had been the splitter and how many times I had been the splitee with every kid in the neighborhood. The one thing that popsicles had going for them is their high sugar/flavor ratio. Get some melted orange popsicle on your hand and you were guaranteed a hand covered in dirt and ants by the end of the day.
Fudgesicles—In no world, under no conditions, did this taste like fudge! My mother made fudge! I knew fudge! This was not fudge! It was always grainy. And tasteless. In your mouth it had all the texture of frozen gravy on a stick.
Vanilla ice cream on a stick covered in chocolate—This came the closest to living up to its potential. The chocolate was good. The ice cream was usually flavorful and smooth. But the whole thing was a time-bomb. Once the chocolate shell was broken, it was a race as everything began to slide off the stick. The chocolate sloughed off in great sheets. Catch it! If it landed on your t-shirt, you spent the rest of the day sucking chocolate out of the fabric. This was a perfect example of winning the battle, but loosing the war. If you were lucky enough to consume every bit of chocolate and ice cream—-even that stubborn bit where the chocolate came in contact with the stick—it went by so fast, that you were only left with memories.
And speaking of memories, back in Aumsville, The coins stayed on the nightstand. The truck passed by. Fool me once—-more like fool me from ages 4-7, but never again.
I was immune. I had move on. I was an adult.
Now if Starbucks rolled trucks through the neighborhoods…
(Thanks, Craig!)
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