When I was growing up in a small town on Vancouver Island in the seventies, I used to dream of living somewhere that an ice cream truck would visit. We were too far out of the city--there were no ice cream trucks to be found in our neighbourhood. I had seen them on tv and knew that the ice cream from those trucks probably tasted better than ice cream from anywhere else in the world. I wanted to hear that truck music and grab some money from my mom, and run to the curb with all of the other neighbourhood kids and get myself an ice cream from the most magical truck ever. I grew up feeling ripped off--I should have had that perfect childhood experience--the joy of chasing that musical version of heaven on wheels after a day of sitting in the hot sun with my friends on the curb pretending we were Charlie's Angels and discussing our love for Shaun Cassidy. I resented my parents for making me live in the country on a safe no-thru road. The pleasures I was denied because of their selfish desire to raise us with good wholesome small town values! It was a travesty from which I am not certain I have ever fully recovered.
Now I live in a suburb in the city in a neighbourhood full of small children, who play outside all day and discuss important issues such as who has the most Yu-Gi-Oh cards while they run around and scrape their knees and climb trees in the summer. And yes...there is an ice cream truck. My son has not been denied his right to the most important aspect of an idyllic childhood. He and his friends chase the truck as it slowly rounds our neighbourhood several times every afternoon.
My opinion of the ice cream truck, however, has changed over the years. I think it started the first time I took the kid to get an ice cream. The tinny repetitive jewelry box music that echoed through the streets still charmed me, and I couldn't wait to see how magical this experience would be for him. But the driver didn't look like the kind of guy I always imagined would drive the truck. He wasn't wearing a pink stripey hat. He didn't have an apron on. He wasn't super smiley. He had a big pot belly, a too-tight t-shirt and about 3 days worth of stubble on his face. And the cheapest ice cream in his truck was $4 and was barely frozen.
Realizing that I could buy a box of 6-8 ice cream treats for just a little more than the cost of one treat from the truck, I decided that visits to the ice cream truck would be reserved for very special occasions, like after a long day at the beach or something. But not all my neighbours have the same policy. It sucks to be that parent who says to her kid, "I'm not paying 4 bucks for a half-melted Fudgsicle from a truck when we have a whole box of treats in our own freezer," and then has to watch him as he stares mournfully at the chocolate-smeared faces and sticky fingers of the happy neighbourhood children whose parents aren't horrible stingy jerkfaces.
Summer is coming and with it comes the truck. Today I saw one of our neighbourhood rugrats licking some kind of caramel concoction off his fingers and wiping them on his t-shirt. I could hear the tinny truck music floating through the air. My son looked at me pleadingly and I shook my head. We have a box of ice cream sandwiches in our freezer. He glared at me and stomped inside the house.
I could still hear the music as the truck drew closer to our block and made it's tenth round in the hour...and it began to sound strangely like the theme to Jaws.
5 comments:
You are a good mom, Katie, and I can just imagine what F will blog about this when he's 28 :-).
That was a funny post to read today because I was watching the Detroit news this afternoon about an ice cream truck driver who was busted for smoking crack while on her route (a white woman). She would actually put down her pipe just to serve the children and then pick it back up and smoke her brain away after the children would leave.
Things just ain't like they used to be!
I grew up in the Scarborough area of Toronto and we had a guy on one of those bikes with a freezer in front of it, but it still had the music. It was always some teenager with greasy hair.
But if it makes you feel better, my parents were the same way (only on special occasions)and I turned out fine! I'm sure your son won't be permanently scarred. Besides, what good is a treat if you don't know it's a treat? After a while, it's just ice cream.
I have a few ice cream truck memories and they're disappointing. The ice cream wasn't all that great and the truck didn't match my imagination. And you know what? Most of the time, my parents said exactly what you said -- we have ice cream treats in the freezer.
As a kid, I remember thinking how great it would be to be an adult and not have all these stupid rules and eat all the candy I want and buy from ice cream trucks if I want. But the truth is, I'm more proud of the limits my mom set on me and the fact that I grew up to have some sense about the world.
That would be awesome, the music from Jaws is a fantastic idea. I can't stand the other music. I do however love ice cream. The people that drive the ice cream truck are usually very friendly folks that genuinely love people.
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