The light, tinkling music from the Good Humor truck as it rolls down Durham Street pulls the children from their houses like a powerful magnet. The macadam street is hot enough to fry an egg. Windows are open, but shades are lowered to keep out the unrelenting rays of this August sun.
Then the slap-slaps of screen doors are followed by the jingle-jangle of coins stuffed deep into shorts and jeans pockets as we dash for the street. We push and shove as we vie for our position. Each child has a favorite flavor. Mine is the rocket with its creamy vanilla ice-cream swirled with chocolate. I like to push up the ice-cream slowly so I can enjoy the cool taste on a hot August day for as long as it is possible. I take the ice cream treat and order for my younger sister Sandy who follows me everywhere like a faithful puppy dog.
My younger sister Sandy, with huge baby blues and ringlets of gold that jig, jig, jiggle as she jumps up and down in front of the truck window, always wants an orange Creamsicle. I hand her the popsicle, and she carefully unravels the paper. As we walk home together, the sunshine beats down on us. Sandy is slowed by the licking and walking. She can’t seem to do either quickly. Her pace slows as the creamsicle runs rivulets between her long fingers and down her right arm to her elbow.
She spatters the sidewalk with drops of sticky sweetness. I wonder who gets more ice-cream – my sister or the ants?
Then the slap-slaps of screen doors are followed by the jingle-jangle of coins stuffed deep into shorts and jeans pockets as we dash for the street. We push and shove as we vie for our position. Each child has a favorite flavor. Mine is the rocket with its creamy vanilla ice-cream swirled with chocolate. I like to push up the ice-cream slowly so I can enjoy the cool taste on a hot August day for as long as it is possible. I take the ice cream treat and order for my younger sister Sandy who follows me everywhere like a faithful puppy dog.
My younger sister Sandy, with huge baby blues and ringlets of gold that jig, jig, jiggle as she jumps up and down in front of the truck window, always wants an orange Creamsicle. I hand her the popsicle, and she carefully unravels the paper. As we walk home together, the sunshine beats down on us. Sandy is slowed by the licking and walking. She can’t seem to do either quickly. Her pace slows as the creamsicle runs rivulets between her long fingers and down her right arm to her elbow.
She spatters the sidewalk with drops of sticky sweetness. I wonder who gets more ice-cream – my sister or the ants?
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