Growing up in the 1970s, it didn’t matter where I was during the summer months. I was always prepared. Always alert, always ready. Ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. If at home, I knew the quickest route to my piggy bank. I could extricate the plug on the bottom swiftly, and in two seconds flat, cold hard cash would empty into my hot little hands. If at the park, I’d have change in the front pocket of my shorts for fast and easy retrieval. If at the lake, mom was in my line of sight, at all times. She was the designated coin dispenser, mainly because our swimming suits didn’t have zippers.
As soon as the first note of that twinkling chime rang out, I didn’t hesitate. Abandoning whatever I was doing, I listened for the direction it was coming from, and immediately sped that way. If I was fast enough, I could beat out my siblings or the neighborhood kids and be the first in line. Like the Pied Piper, when our local ice cream truck showed up, mesmerized, we followed the tune, while visions of frozen treats danced in our heads.
Choosing the delight of the day was always the difficult part. So, while I ran towards the white van clad with colorful pictures of possibilities, I’d flip through my menu of favorites. Would today be a Creamsicle day? That divine combination of rich vanilla ice cream covered in tangy orange sherbet perched on a stick. So refreshing. Or did I feel more like devouring a Strawberry Shortcake? Biting into a vanilla ice cream bar with a strawberry ice cream center, rolled in pink and white cakey cookie crumbles. Never, ever, a disappointment. Or would a Nutty Buddy strike my fancy? The milky vanilla ice cream swirled with fudge wrapped in a crunchy waffle cone, topped with peanuts and chocolate pieces. In my book, the perfect combination of flavors and textures. But, if by chance, my frosty faves were sold out, I could always rely on a Fla-Vor-Ice to do the trick. Grape, Lemon Lime, or Berry Punch ice pops in their plastic tubes were as much fun to squeeze, as they were to eat! Even a red, white, and blue Rocket popsicle would do in a pinch.
Consuming the chosen confection, now, that was the easy part. However, with the hot temperatures synonymous with east coast summers, it was always a race to consume my snack before it melted all over my hands!
While ice cream has been peddled on streets in push carts equipped with blocks of ice since the late 1800s, ice cream trucks, as we know them, have been making people in the states smile since the 1920s. That’s when candy maker and confectioner, Harry Burt from Youngstown, Ohio came up with the idea of putting a chocolate covered vanilla ice cream bar on a stick. His creation? The Good Humor bar that he sold out of a truck. That one truck, expanded to 12, and after World War II, Good Humor had a fleet of over 2,000! Other ice cream companies came to the market in the 1950s, one of which was Mr. Softee. Neither of those was the vehicle delivering happiness to us in the summertime some 50 years ago. No, ours was simply known as Mr. Ding-A-Ling!
If you’ve ever bought a goodie from an ice cream truck, you know its the chiming jingle that sets you in motion. Your hands reach for change, then your feet head on out the door. Interestingly, the first ice cream truck drivers actually rang sleigh bells to attract kids near and far. Today, pre-recorded melodies that can be heard include: “Turkey in the Straw”, “The Entertainer”, “Camptown Races”, “Little Brown Jug” and “London Bridge is Falling Down” among others. I recall the tune ringing from our Mr. Ding-A-Ling truck as sounding similar to the first few bars of Disney’s “It’s a Small World.” Catchy!
From my journal: July 18, 2022, Newbury Park, California
“Heard the distinct twinkly song of an ice cream truck yesterday! They still exist! So glad…”
Will the days of ice cream trucks meandering through neighborhoods on hot lazy afternoons, offering ice cold refreshments to the delight of kids of all ages ever end? I truly hope not. For it is one of my fondest childhood memories. As sweet to relive, as the treats were to eat.
A Journal Journey 