I Scream

As I opened the back door of the Mail Tribune’s advertising department the late afternoon summer heat walloped me like a shovel in the gut. The sun felt like high intensity heat lamps in an interrogation room, trying to sweat a confession from an accused criminal. I moved slowly across the parking lot, attempting to conserve the loss of body fluids that could cause instant mummification.

Reaching the sidewalk a faint tune surfing on the waves of heat tickled my ears, causing me to stop in mid-step. I turned my head toward the direction of the sound in an effort to distinguish the source and nearness of the playful organ circus chords. For a few moments I didn’t recognize the music the plinking calliope played. However, as the strain drew closer, the jingle became familiar and I discovered the source of the cheerful ditty. “Old McDonald’s Farm” blared from speakers on the roof of a red and white ice cream truck, echoing off downtown cement and stucco buildings, creating a feedback harmony that beckoned all to come relieve their summer fevers with cold frozen goodness. Closing my eyes I was carried through time by the hypnotic musical pulse.

My mother had just carried the last plate from dinner to the sink when I detected through the open kitchen window a faint tune that seemed to creep closer and closer. I began to shake with excitement and struggled to unlock the screen door. I stumbled onto the porch and leaned over the metal ornamental railing. The breeze from the nearby bay ruffled my wavy hair as I swiveled my head and aligned my radar like ears toward the sound. The jingle announcing the truck's arrival drew children out their front doors like a magnet in a pile of iron shavings. “Pop Goes the Weasel” blared from the two roof top megaphones fastened to the top of the ice cream truck clunking through its daily rounds. I ran back inside to plead for spare change from Mom.

Children ran from their homes and followed the truck with nickels, dimes and quarters in their clenched fists. No torture or trauma could be worse than to drop and lose ice cream money into storm drains, sidewalk cracks or tall grass. Waving arms and jumping children brought the truck to a stop. The line would form and each child scanned the life-like pictures of the frosty treats posted on the side of this wonderful vehicle from the Arctic.

The choices seemed endless to salivating, panting youngsters. There were multi-flavored Popsicles and Ice Cream Sandwiches where the layer of soft chocolate wafer stuck to little fingers. There were chocolate and peanut crusted Drumsticks in sugar cones, and sherbet flavored Push-ups. Coins changed hands and smiling children did victory jigs on their way back to their homes while smacking lips and licking tongues lapped up the icy treasures.

I was aroused from my time traveling trance when "Old McDonald" stopped in mid chorus. Instinctively, I frantically searched for loose coins and started to wave down the treat filled truck as it turned a corner and drove away. I felt like a kid who had just lost his ice cream money through a hole in his pocket. Wistfully, I put the dimes and quarters away as the music faded from ear shot.

I had previously wished for a tune from a mournful bagpipe at the end of my graveside gathering to help carry me home. But now, when loved ones gather around my place of rest, they may hear a distant familiar tune that once drew little ones with clenched coins running toward the truck that brought smiles and life to children of the neighborhood. After all, Ice Cream Truck music is happy music.