I love the sound of ice cream truck music. It transports me back to those long-ago summer days when the much-awaited ice cream truck wend its way through the narrow neighborhood streets. My sister and I, along with other children, pestered our parents for dimes to buy a treat.
The choices seemed endless: dreamsicles, with orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream swirled together, fudgesicles, and, of course, popsicles in a rainbow of colors. Who could choose between such delicacies? When I finally made my choice, I didn't immediately rip into it. I pressed the paper-wrapped frozen treat against my forehead and relished the blessed coolness. (These were the days before central air conditioning.)
After I had savored this prelude, I pulled the paper away from my treat of the day. Now another choice presented itself: should I bite into it or should I lick it? On those days when I chose to bite off a hunk, I knew I could expect brain freeze. That, too, was part of the experience.
Those were innocent days, filled with innocent pleasures, when the lemon heat of the summer sun beat down on our heads and we played cowboys and Indians, wielding our melting treats like the fiercest of weapons.
So, for today, I am grateful for ice cream trucks.