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I had, with the best intentions, planned on spending my time between meetings writing at the library but unfortunately at 5:30 a.m., my memory failed to live up to the standards of those intentions. I forgot my zip drive. Plus, I simply did not feel like spending three hours in the library.
So, with the tiniest smidgeon of guilt, I, with a little bit of help from the sun and a cloudless sky, managed to convince myself that my time would be best spent reading in the park. I had that elated feeling that comes with doing something you shouldn’t. Like in college, when that first nice day in spring rolls around and you skip your afternoon snoozefest of a class to go Rollerblading around the lake. It was the same feeling, and I was drunk on naughtiness.
I had great weather, a shade tree, a wonderful book and cool grass. My afternoon was golden. I spent it lost in my book flitting between Calcutta and San Francisco thanks to the artistry of a truly gifted author. And just as I was considering stopping to get a sundae from Ghiradelli, or perhaps picking up some pakoras from a roadside vendor, I heard it. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys (a song that always makes me smile, despite not being a big fan of the band), I had to listen for a little bit to figure out it was being played on what sounded like a calliope.
I lived in downtown Winona long enough that my first instinct was to look for the big black cloud of smoke that usually accompanies any song played by a calliope. And then I realized what was going on, it was the ice cream man. The songs may have changed, but the sound was unforgettable.
I was instantly transported to childhood and the extremely rare occasions — I can count them on my hand — that the ice cream man would drive through our neighborhood. Only two vehicles could be heard from two blocks away in my neighborhood, one was my best friend’s Dodge Omni that had a serious belt problem (convenient in that I always knew when she was coming around the corner to pick me up) and the other was the ice cream man.
The ice cream man’s arrival was an event in our neighborhood. Everyone went scurrying inside their homes only to emerge minutes later anxiously grasping their dollars in their hands (all in varying degrees of cleanliness depending on whether they got money from their moms or were using their own stash).
You could cut the air with a knife, everyone holding their breath waiting to hear the “Looney Tunes” theme song slow (the tell-tale sign he was turning the corner) only to be disappointed when it stopped altogether signaling that he was selling to the bratty Johnson twins on the corner (who once tried to chase me with an axe while I was baby-sitting them).
Finally, he would turn the corner, and we would all form an orderly line. My neighbor, Ed, whose sons were all married and moved away, would amble out and make sure that all the kids got something, telling them they could pay him back by keeping their bikes off his lawn.
And then, just like that, it was over. We would all scatter with our push-ups, ice cream sandwiches, rocket pops and freezies and return to the business at hand, which was usually playing and riding bikes.
I’m sure the ice cream man probably never had the same affect on kids that lived in a downtown area. But for us, the nearest store was 15 miles away, and we were too young to bike that far. For us, the ice cream man was the equivalent of that super hot day in August when the city would release the hydrant valves and everyone gets to play in the spray (yet, another aspect of my childhood that I miss).
After I recovered from my trip down memory lane, I got up and did what anyone with a fiver in her pocket would do. I flagged down the ice cream man (who turned out to be the ice cream lady), and despite being about two feet taller than everyone else in line who wasn’t accompanied by a 3-year-old, I placed my order.
Incidentally, I made my decision based solely on taste, not allowing my adult mind swimming with calories and fat grams to take over. I took a long time to make my decision; all those pictures on the side of the truck can be overwhelming. After careful consideration, I finally decided on the same thing I always got as a kid. When you’ve got a good thing going, there’s no need to mess with it.
It tasted just as good as it did then, and as I walked back to my spot on the grass, I was just a little bit sad that I was old enough to eat it without getting any on me. But, that thought came too soon as a chunk of chocolate managed to drip off onto my brand new white capris. Oh well, it’s good to know that some things never change even if it is only my inability to stay clean while eating ice cream.
Strumski is a 30-something traveler who has a passion for both Bollywood and chocolate.
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