Mr. Ice Cream Man
I admit, it is easy for me to get caught in the vortex of never-ending news, the incessant need to stay current, my desire to consider as many angles as I can, and commitment to think about life as it is and life as it will be. Frankly, it can be exhausting, and probably counterproductive. That’s why yesterday I took a moment to think about what was. It was a conscious effort to look back and it delivered an unpredictable outcome.
One would think I would have found some profound memory or reflection to engage my mind and bring me tranquility. That wasn’t what happened; as soon as I allowed myself to forget today’s stuff, my mind was grabbed by memories of when I was seven. That’s a big year for most kids, and a year I remember fondly.
It was the summer of 1974 when my family took our first real family trip to a place out of state. Vacation was an unknown concept to a child who thought a weekend in Middle Tennessee visiting kinfolk constituted seeing the world. The idea of traveling wasn’t necessarily new to Mom and Dad but for whatever reason, since they had brought me into the world, our family voyages had been local. Prior to my parents tying the knot, Dad was in the Army and stationed at Ft. Stewart Army Post, on the eastern coast, just south of Savannah Georgia; and I gather that influenced the decision for us to go to Jekyll Island, Georgia for a week-long vacation. My first trip out of state was the week of the 4th of July 1974. The initial glimpse of the ocean, the feel of sand, watching waves crash on shore, the fear of sharks and jellyfish; all first-time emotions overwhelmed my little brain and left a lasting impression. As did eating at, what I perceived, were real fancy restaurants; I loved hushpuppies and they became an annual must have when we were in Jekyll; I thought they were a special delicacy—today, I admit I overstated their contribution to the culinary scene, regardless hushpuppies, done right, still are at the top of my list and I can easily eat a bucket when put in front of me.
I remember getting a very bad sunburn. If my parents knew about sunscreen, they left it at the house in Tennessee. I was introduced to the power of a determined wave, against a scrawny boy’s frame as I was tossed around and thrown against the bottom repeatedly, only to grab my float and try again to ride the wave. I collected unknown amounts of sand dollars and shells. I rode my bike, saw an alligator for the first time and fed seagulls. I was living large.
Memories of Jekyll Island reside firmly in my mind, and I hope never leave. The trip in 1974 was our first family vacation, but not our last to the Golden Isles of Georgia; we went there every summer over the 4th of July until I went off to college. Mom and Dad weren’t into trying new things and when they found something they liked they were hesitant to change. I remember going to college and having a limited knowledge of what existed beyond Tennessee. I was a bit sheltered, but I knew the route from Knoxville, south to Atlanta, down I75 to Tifton, Georgia, and then 100 miles east through Waycross until we reached our little spot at the Wanderer Motel in Jekyll.
The summer of 1974 also marked my introduction to the brilliant idea that a guy driving a truck could visit your neighborhood and sell you an ice cream from his refrigerator on wheels. I distinctly remember playing in the yard and hearing some joyful, mechanical music blaring from the street at the top of the hill, when Mom came running out of the house—grinning and yelling— “it’s the ice cream man.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, but her enthusiasm caught my attention, and I followed her to the street curb and began to look hard down Kingsgate Road waiting for something great to happen.
Eventually the truck arrived, and I was given the enormous task of choosing what ice cream I wanted from a broad selection. They might as well have asked me to recite the Gettysburg Adress. I just stared blankly, while the music blared, frozen with indecision. Mom stepped in and directed me, and all ended well. I grabbed my selection and dispensed of my prior hesitancy and devoured that banana popsicle.
Thus began a daily obsession with listening for the ice cream truck. Each day I wore my parents out asking if they had heard the music yet, or what time it was coming. My annoying focus on getting a daily treat was compounded by a lingering speech impediment I hadn’t been able to kick. As I understand it, I struggled to clearly say words that included the letters TR. I don’t know why that was such a problem, but it manifested itself with me replacing the sound for TR with an F instead. Imagine the joy my parents felt when I saw a truck and would say I saw a f…ck. I guess this problem didn’t present itself frequently, until I became singularly driven by the afternoon ice cream f…ck. After a few weeks of my asking Mom, a dozen times a day when will the ice cream f…ck be here, Mom decided enough was enough. She sat me down and explained I was asking the wrong question, instead of asking about the truck, I should be asking about the ice cream man. He was the special person who got up everyday and worked hard to make sure kids got their daily treat. Mom suggested that I should ask, “when is the ice cream man here.” I am told I followed her recommendation, and I relinquished my title as the most fouled mouth seven-year-old in Farragut, TN.
I am not sure what the tune ice cream trucks play—they all seem to be the same—but, even today, I can replay it in my head, and when I do, I am recalling a simple joy of a kid. I am now a maturing adult and, I am sure like most people with grandkids, I realize simple joys are the best joys. Even though our grandkids are bombarded with so much noise, I hope they still find little moments they will carry with them for the rest of their life.
For the record, I thought the ice cream man was the coolest person. He never seemed bothered by a throng of kids crowded around his truck. He patiently waited for our request, and he delivered. For me it was a Nutty Buddy. Oh, how I miss the flavor of my favorite ice cream treat. Next time I can, I think I will break my eating routine and enjoy the treat the helped a seven-year-old make a lasting, simple memory, and I will remember my friend the Ice Cream Man.
