Sunday was a relatively nice day here in Jersey, with temperatures slowly meandering toward ‘not freezing’. In the afternoon, the sun was shining so Husban-dito opened some windows in the house.
I was busy doing laundry and cooking dinner reading a book and eating Cheetos, when I heard the siren call that signifies summer at the Jersey Shore: the tinny strains of “It’s a Small World” blaring from the speaker of the Good Humor truck wending its way through our neighborhood.
Ant and I froze, our eyes wild and ears perked at the sound. And then we sprang into action, scrambling for dollars and loose change. I sent him on ahead to flag down the truck, while I dashed down the stairs, pulling a sweatshirt on over my ratty T-shirt. (Have to look good for the ice cream man, you know?)
I flung open the door and ran down the walk and driveway to the awaiting truck, my senses on overload. “It’s a Small World” was still blaring from the speakers, but now the sound was magnified and bouncing off of the houses in an echo-y, fun-house effect. I stared at the choices and couldn’t make a selection.
The Good Humor man was anything but. He was a scowling teenager who rolled his eyes as I pondered my selection. Husban-dito went with the Strawberry Shortcake and I buckled under the pressure, selecting a favorite from my childhood: The Snow Cone.
I was a wily kid and picked the snow cone because it outlasted any other frozen confection. Long after my sister and our friends had finished their treats, I’d still be gnawing away on my cone. The downside to the snow cone? It lost its flavor pretty quickly and the paper cone was reduced to a soppy, drippy mess before I could finish the it. Today was no different and I ended up tossing the cone into the garbage after leaving a trail of murky, sticky snow cone drippings on the kitchen floor.
So, pick yer poison. What’s your fancy when the Good Humor man comes a callin’?