Memory Monday-It’s a thing…
Living in the country all my life, there are certain things you learn to accept. You have to drive well over thirty minutes before you see anything resembling civilization. Chances are you won’t have any sort of pizza or food delivery. Any food you buy at a restaurant will likely be cold by the time you get home. There are quirky things, like ice cream trucks, in the city that you won’t often see in the country.
Except for a couple summers in the 1980s when we did have an ice cream truck in the country. I don’t remember much about the people who owned the truck. Someone in the family called the driver and his family “hippies.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, and I thought it to meant “really cool people with a colorful ice cream truck.”
The first time the other kids and I heard the tinny, carnival style music we didn’t know what to think. Even Mom and Granny didn’t think there was an actual ice cream truck driving around the country side. We heard the music, and we all watched from Granny’s yard as the most wonderful thing in the world rolled by us. The next day, we were ready. Mom and Granny armed us with a couple dollars each and sent us outside to play. I think we focused more on listening for the truck than we did on anything else that day. With a large yard, huge hayfields, and a whole hillside for our playground, we opted to stay close to the house. As soon as we heard the first notes of the ice cream truck music, we all took off running toward the main road.
I imagine we looked like the little moles in a whack-a-mole game as we popped beside the main road. We each bought our ice cream and by that time, Mom and Granny caught up with us. They talked to the truck driver for a few minutes before we all headed back to Granny’s.
The next day, we waited for the truck again. This time when we heard the music, the truck was too close for us to run to the road before it passed us by. Then another awesome thing happened…the truck turned off the main road onto the dirt road that lead to Granny’s house. Every time the truck ran that summer and the next summer, the man driving would come over to Granny’s. Sometimes my cousins were there, sometimes they weren’t, but the driver never complained.
So folks, don’t take your ice cream trucks for granted. Somewhere there are little country kids just wishing they had access to an ice cream truck.