Somewhere deep in the brain a connection is made. The subliminal sound from far off in the neighborhood registers and drags you from your intense digging in the damp sand beneath the willow tree. It’s the ice cream man!
The adrenaline rush fuels your body as you spring up and run for home, hoping. Will she give you the dime?
He is closer now. As you approach your house you can see the other kids sprinting on their own procurement missions, each one triggered by the tinky-tink music of the truck bearing fudgesicles and creamsicles and popsicles safely through the swelter of summer. Your sandals pound on the sidewalk as you reach your own screen door. Inside, mother can be seen in silhouette at the ironing board. The screen door slams. Mama, can I? Can I, please? The ice cream man, mama!
You’ve caught her in a reverie. Who knows what mothers think about as they work? What must their daydreams be? She smiles, turns slowly, reaches for her purse. Outside the ice cream music is louder. Hurry, mama! He’s coming! you think but do not utter as you wait for her to make her way at excruciatingly slow speed through the process of retrieving a single silver coin from the myriad items in that old purse. Your body vibrates and pulses; bounces up and down.
At last you see the coin. Almost in slow motion, it comes up glinting amidst lint debris clenched between her thumb and forefinger. In a flash it is yours. You grasp it now with small fat fingers and, as if propelled by jets, burst from the house triumphant. (A faint snapshot of her smile imprints in the recesses of your mind where it will reside for all time.) You hit the yard running. Too late! The ice cream man has made the turn. Oh, no. But ahead you can see the boys – Ray and Carol and Billy – are going to cut him off. He sees them in the rearview mirror and instantly the brake lights flash. Hooray!
With white uniform, white hat and shiny black shoes, the ice cream man moves from the front seat to the refrigerator door in one smooth motion, a chrome changemaker jangling at his belt. When the door opens, the smoky cold escapes giving us a little arctic blast as we huddle around the ice cream man, hands out to receive our prizes from inside the frostbitten compartment.
In moments, the four of us are huddled once more in the willow-shaded sand box, tearing at the paper, and licking at the drips that still manage to hit our bare legs. We are laughing. Bragging. Teasing. And enjoying our victory. The day is hot. The ice cream is cold and sticky. Life is good.
by Edward Ellis, Special Correspondent
Craven County native Eddie Ellis is a journalist, writer and historian. He’s the author of New Bern History 101 and other works about the area’s rich heritage.