Ice Cream and the Freedom Bell

Springtime for a kid is like a practice game for summer. A warmup in many ways.

In between thunderstorms and occasional winter remnants, the outdoors is rediscovered. Heavy jackets, boots, and long pants molt to make way for shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops.

Cobwebs get spun off bike and skateboard tires. Basketballs bounce in driveways and soccer balls are kicked in yards, just starting to thicken and green.

In a few weeks, an annual rite will take place with great anticipation - the last day of school. I vividly remember the class watching the second hand of the clock like a crazed Doberman guarding a junkyard. At exactly 3:15 pm, the buzzer sounded, and students bounced out of their seats. The mad dash to get out of the school resulted in notebook paper and discarded tests swirling around the entrances for days.

But a clear sign that the season had started came by way of a distinguished sound. It was a signal, a call to action, that to this day can bring an intense game to an immediate halt, or cause kids to charge ferociously out of their front door.

It can be heard from about a half-block away, so there was time to react. Kids instinctively shoved hands into pockets, desperately hoping that there might be a forgotten quarter or a combination of small change in there. If there was none, it was time to create plan B or suffer the agonizing pain of missing out.

An odd-looking vehicle approached. In my early years it resembled what might be a small, white ambulance, eventually evolving into a mail truck with a picture window. But there were no bills or packages to sort through there. This was a freezer on wheels, doling out happiness on a stick.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

It was the ice cream truck. We knew it as the Good Humor man, and later in the suburbs, the ding-ding man. Whatever you called it, everyone wanted it’s cargo.

At that youthful age, choosing what to buy was one of life’s hardest decisions. Since the budget only allowed for one item, serious thought had to be applied, especially if a line had formed. The crowd got impatient quickly.

Bomb Pops, Dreamsicles, King Cones, Chocolate Sandwiches, Chocolate Éclairs, Strawberry Shortcake, and the Toasted Almond, to name a few. The daylight savings time menu. Discerning palates not required.

Summer became more than just one of the seasons, it was a feeling and a vibe that the other three did not muster.

Whereas winter kept you in, summer got you out. It was a time in living color, a glorious full bloom, and aromas of it’s own. These characteristics trigger fond memories of people and places.

Freshly cut grass, the dampness of a hard rain, steaks and burgers kissing the grates of a sizzling grill, and the coziness of a campfire.

Picnics, festivals, and block parties. Live music and tunes blasting from the open window of a passing car. “Summer’s here and the time is right for dancing in the street.” Martha and the Vandellas got it right. She also added, “They’re dancing in Chicago.” Yes, we were.

The coolness of grass under bare feet. The sun’s warmth bearing down on suntan lotion. A cold drink from a garden hose. Swimming in a lake or pool or charging through a sprinkler.

A chorus of birds singing. Squirrels darting up and down trees. Dogs barking at one another.

The irritating itch of mosquito bites. Tender skin from sunburn. The sting of skinned knees and cuts.

A busy park with every swing in motion, hanging from monkey bars, and flying down a slide then running to the steps again.

Worn out baseball mitts and dirty spikes. The clang of an aluminum bat smashing a ball. The universal chant of “Hey batter. Hey, hey batter. Hey batter, swing!” chimed from the field.

Jump rope and hopscotch. Hide and seek. Kick the can. A jumble of bikes indicating where everyone was playing.

Of course, no school. I never hated it, but not having homework for three months was precious. Alice Cooper connected with generations by singing, “No more pencils. No more books. No more teacher’s dirty looks.”

Everyone has their own version of what made it so sweet.

To me, though, summer represented freedom. As much as a kid could get anyway. Aside from a paper route and chores, a real job was still years away. There was no need to get up at five thirty in the morning to cut the grass or take out the trash. It was your time, your space, and your choice to hang out with whomever you wanted, whenever, and wherever you wanted.

That is, until the streetlights went on. Then it was time to go home.

And do it all over again the next day!