Ice Cold Summer

You always knew summertime in the South was just different. The temperatures steadily climbed and by 10:00 am the heat was nearly unbearable, but you couldn’t not be outside. Lemonade and ice water flowed endlessly as shouts of laughter intermingled with the smell of chlorine. The kids, against better judgment, practiced their most outrageous dives at the community pool.

Cries of frustration were carried by the hot wind as bikes crashed into rose bushes. The scraped knees of the awkward girl, in her short sets and ponytails, were a rite of passage as you fell on the hard concrete in your new roller-skates. Your mother always shook her head when she washed the dirt and grass out of your summer clothes.

Water hoses and sprinklers made the yards and sidewalks look like homemade slip-and-slides. Bored parents watched from their front porches praying for a quick rain shower so they’d have a reason to call their children inside. They contemplated if they should just run the kids up to McDonald’s because it was just too hot to turn on the stove.

Older kids played the radio loud and danced to the booming beats. The younger kids looked at them in awe; hoping they’d be like them one day. You tried to hit a move or two when no one was watching.

Somebody’s Daddy or uncle had ribs and brisket laid on the grill at least three times a week. The mesquite smoke billowed through the backyards.

The few unlucky students that had to attend summer school rushed home by noon to join in on the fun. You were always grateful to ace school and have the summers to yourself.

In the midst of all the excitement, the waiting game endured. Each day it always happened at a different time. Mid-play there was always a kid or two or five looking longingly down the entrance of the cul-de-sac.

When the captivating melody of the first notes hit everyone’s ears, heads turned in unison. Breaths were held as a momentary silence came over the neighbor. All watched the white truck move slowly down the street.

The ice cream man was here.

Children rejoiced and ran as loose change jingled in their pockets. Your mother always shouted at you to be careful as she told you to get her an ice cream sandwich. Sometimes the lines were as long as the sidewalk. Anticipation built as you bounced on your toes while those ahead of you took too long to make their choices. But choices you didn’t need. There was only one thing on your mind: The Bomb Pop.

However, there was a science to this selection. It had to be the right bomb pop. Though the red, white, and blue flavor of the original popsicle never disappointed, it paled severely in the decadence of the chocolate and banana ice cream on a stick you wanted. It was so good you had to savor it for a moment to appreciate what you were about to taste. But soon you tore into the package. Couldn’t wait too long. You didn’t want it to melt.

The first taste was so cold your tongue almost stuck to the top portion. You close your eyes at the thrill of it all. Just the thought of the scrumptiousness to come made you dig into it deeper. Soon the combination of the chocolate and banana worked together to create a sensory overload to your taste buds. The heat was racing you to win who could finish the treat first. You tried to stop the melted ice cream from running down your arms. You weren't embarrassed to lick a line down your forearm.

The last bite was the perfect mixture of banana and chocolate. You slowly let the stick run against your tongue, tasting both the thin wood and the now almost liquefied ice cream.

The sunshine was a little less oppressive as some of your playmates skipped into their houses to watch their favorite cartoons. You’re happy and content. You smile up at the sun one last time as your mother called you inside to do the same.