Growing up in small town Texas, the ice cream man was a regular visitor on our street. I can still recall the jingle that indicated the cold treats were inching closer to our doorstep. It created a frantic run to the glass jug that held loose change. My brother and I would dump out every last coin and count our pennies until we had enough for the one thing that always seemed to satisfy our bodies in the summer heat.
Now 25 years later, it seems the ice cream man invokes the same scurry in my boy, although a bit of irony plays out. I find myself recalling my childhood memories while struggling with the adult side of me that says, “That ice cream is so unhealthy, and should I be concerned about buying ice cream that comes from the inside of an old truck?” Despite my adult cautions, I find myself wondering if my boy will one day look back and find that the ice cream man was indeed a fond memory of summer days.