8-28-2002

I was taking a nice little stroll today, trying to work off calories from the Authentic Frozen Burrito I’d had for lunch. (I’m not sure how “authentic” it is when the substance that passes for cheese is some sort of petroleum byproduct, but I must assume that the ancient Aztecs who invented the burrito must’ve had an ancient oil refinery right there next to their ancient burrito kitchen.) Anyway, during this stroll, I was suddenly struck by a genuine Nostalgia Moment.

This Moment was triggered by the passing of an ice cream truck. Even at my advanced age, the tune from that familiar little tinkling bell causes my head to oscillate rapidly, trying to find where the truck is. Is he on my block? Is he coming this way? Why doesn’t the driver go insane listening to that SAME ANNOYING TUNE over and over again all day long?

The Ice Cream Man was a neighborhood deity where I grew up. Kids would magically appear whenever the tune was heard. One-stick Popsicles were 3¢, Fudgesicles and Eskimo Pies were 5¢, and the mythically powerful “Bomb Pops” were a dime. I didn’t carry money in those days (heck, I rarely even wore pants), so I’d have to run into the house and request alms from the parents, then blast back out into the street, hoping that the other kids would dawdle long enough for me to make it there before he drove off to the next block.

We even had the occasional bike-riding vendor of frozen treats. I loved watching the dry ice mist rise from his freezer when he opened up to retrieve the goodies. I never asked, but I always wondered how far he had to ride that ungainly bike to get to our neighborhood. I was pretty sure that he didn’t live anywhere nearby. I had visions of a giant semi-truck full entering the neighborhood under cover of pre-dawn darkness, dropping off bikes and riders, then trundling off to spend the day delivering Icee mix to the local QuickTrip store…then returning at the end of the day to pick up the exhausted salespeople.

Our neighborhood had a dozen or so kids who were all roughly the same age. The suburb was called “Westlink”, probably because it was the westernmost suburb of the town. Today, Westlink is closer to the center of town than it is to the western edge…because the town has expanded in that direction – not due to any mysterious neighborhood creeping syndrome. Our favorite evening pastimes while we waited for the ice cream truck were “Kick the Can”, “Hide and Seek”, and “Freeze Tag”.

It’s funny – I can distinctly remember the menu painted on the side of the truck (especially the wavy lines that made the bomb pop look like it was flying), but for the life of me I couldn’t tell you the rules for “Kick the Can”. Something to do with a can, and kicking, I’d guess…

We also played a game we called “Bombard-A-Doug”. Every neighborhood has one kid who suffers more than the rest, and ours was Doug. He’s probably a multi-millionaire pharmaceuticals tycoon by now, but back then he was the proverbial “Last Kid to Get Picked”.

Every now and then, just out of pure meanness, a bunch of us would gather up a dozen Nerf® balls and fling them at Doug. He was not happy about this, and would complain vigorously. Of course, the more he complained, the more Nerf beanings he got. When he’d ask why we felt compelled to torment him so, the answer was simply that we had no choice – it was required by the rules of “Bombard-A-Doug”.

Only two things could divert our attention away from this game. One was the appearance of lightning bugs. As soon as someone noticed a blinking light floating by in the air, we’d all scoot off in that direction. Sometimes we’d just chase them around for the pure fun of watching them do what seemed to be biologically impossible. Other times, we’d try to catch them.

One kid did actually attempt the time-honored science experiment of trying to create a light bulb by filling a jar with fireflies. He never quite got to the point where he could read by the light of this miracle all-natural lamp. But he did end up with several jars of dead bugs. Hmmm, I wonder if that’s why we don’t see any any of them glowing critters around here anymore…

The other diversion was the ice cream truck, of course. Due to inflation, bomb pops are probably $2.25 now, but I think I’ll splurge, just for the memory. Please excuse me while I go listen for the truck.