Hail to The Ice Cream Man!

Hearing a cheerful melody faintly playing down the road, all activity halts at our house. Turning down the radio while dancing in the kitchen, listening to MC Hammer or Madonna, we suddenly freeze.

Is that what I think it is?

Patiently waiting to ensure our ears are not playing tricks on us, we remain frozen. Could it be? Is it the Ice Cream Man?!

Growing up with two sisters and on a corner street filled with other children close to our age, the Ice Cream Man was practically a superhero.

Ring-Ring! Ring-a-Ding!

Our ears perk up like a deer hearing a stick break in the forest. Grabbing my sisters, we run outside to see which direction he will be driving from.

Each of us takes our position. I post on the north side of the yard, my little sister takes the south, and our neighborhood playmates post on their home's corners. Like lion cubs practicing their pounce, we stand ready. Hearing the looped music crackle across the speakers, I can tell he's near.

He's got to be turning the corner any second, I bounce on the tips of my toes.

"There he is!" the little boy across the street points.

Yesssss!

Being faster than my sisters, I run inside to grab all three of our piggy banks while they keep the Ice Cream Man busy with their sugary demands. Using the bottom of my Spice Girls shirt, I haul them out to the curb like a basket. Letting my older sister go first, who usually opted for the Screwball. I couldn't blame her. Who can resist the slushed cherry-infused ice with a gumball at the bottom waiting for you as a reward? Although enticing, I had my eyes set on another scrumptious favorite.

After helping my little sister count her pennies, nickels, and dimes to pick out her chilly treat, I'd wait for my turn at the back of the line.

Oh, so many choices! What do I do? My frantic little heart fluttered.

Looking over the kids' shoulders, I saw the half-peeled pictures on the side of the rusted white ice cream truck. Each one pointed to good choices like Firecracker popsicles, Snow Cones, and Flintstone Push Pops.

Oh, please don't be out of my favorite! Please!

Holding my Care Bear bank, I jingle it next to my ear to jog my memory. Do I have enough money?

"Whatcha want, honey?"

Trying to grip the plastic piece plugging my Care Bear's butt, "I'm..." I struggle to twist it off. "I'm not sure how much money I have," I grunt. "I can't get my bank open."

Leaning over the edge, "I'll get it open for you, little lady." The plug comes free with a quick yank, and he gently hands my porcelain Care Bear back. Giving me a minute to dump my money on the sidewalk to count, he patiently waits for me as I count out loud.

Holy Batman, I've got enough! I scoop up the pitiful amount of change into my dirt-caked palm. Using my shirt again, I hold my money. "I have a lot of dimes for you!"

Laughing, "I see that. What can I get for ya? I was worried your friends would clean me out, but I have plenty left."

Oh my gosh. Which one?

My eyes bounce between my two favorites. Pink Panther or Bugs Bunny? Biting my lip, They are both delicious! Although I preferred to watch Bugs Bunny cartoons over the Pink Panther, the sweet cherry taste is too irresistible to pass up. On the other hand, Bug Bunny's ears always made it much easier to eat as it melted in the sweltering Midwest heat. Both have bubble gum eyes, but which one will win today?

"Ummm..." I push my sweaty pigtails to the side. "I'd like...ummm." He watches me bounce back and forth to each picture on the side of his truck. (As an adult looking back, I can see that he probably thinks I already had enough sugar.)

Letting my gut speak for me, I finally shout "Pink Panther!" just as loud as my grandma does at BINGO Night.

Grinning, he walks to the freezer. Leaning out of the rickety window again, he hands it to me as I pour my money into his cold palm.

"Is that going to be all for you today?"

"Yes, sir!" I gnaw at a corner of the plastic wrap to rip it open.

Watching him drive away, blasting his static melody over the speaker, I plop onto the curb to safeguard my extra nickels scattering the sidewalk. Like an adult studying a lottery scratch-off, I could not help but wonder what state my Pink Panther popsicle would be in when I release him from his plastic package.

Was it going to be half-melted?

Did he get my popsicle request incorrect and give me that stupid Tweety Bird ice cream again?

Shedding the plastic wrapper off like a wolverine excited for its Christmas present, I was relieved to see my Pink Panther ice cream nearly intact. Despite one of its gumball eyes being lopsided and the other half-sunk in his face, I was still giddy like a girl who just got Valentine's card from her secret crush.

Thank you, Mr. Ice Cream Man. Your visit to my neighborhood was the cherry on top of my hot summer day.