Other Trucks We Chased. Here Comes The Ice Cream Man!!

Another grand chase that entertained the hordes of neighborhood children was the ice cream truck. Although I couldn't hear the truck coming (I was nearly deaf from a bout with the measles), I knew when the sound of ding-ding-ding was rounding the corner by the way the other kids straightened their little backs and perked up their heads like prairie dogs. Then someone would scream "THE ICE CREAM MAN!!" That was our cue to run to our respective houses. Our arms and legs pumping like windmills, we would yell like banshees: "MOM!!! A dime, a dime. PLEAASSSEE!!" With dimes safely secured in our sweaty little hands and huffing and puffing in the stifling mid-Western heat, we surrounded the white truck with its brightly painted pictures of popsicles, fudge bars, creamsicles, and my mom's favorite, Drumsticks. (The extra dime she usually gave me was for her Drumstick which like a marine fulfilling my mission, I dutifully and proudly took back to the house for her. She always smiled so gratefully when I handed it to her.) The truck was never surrounded by less than a dozen kids whose hot, flushed faces dripped with sweat. Their bodies emitted a variety of unsavory odors, and a score of skinned and bloody knobby knees hung pathetically from raggedy shorts as they shouted out their orders all at once and multiple times until each had his or her treat in hand. Serving us on nearly a daily basis, The Ice Cream Man understood our pleas: Fubbar! Dumstik! Cweamsicle! Cherwee Pop! He handed them out one by one, politely and with a smile. Sometimes, noticing a child didn't have his or her dime that day, he nonchalantly handed out the treat anyway. Before driving away, he saluted and sang out: "Enjoy your ice cream kids! See ya's tomorrow!" God, we loved that guy!