We see the ice cream truck almost every day in summer. There’s a guy, locally known as Papa Joe, who drives an old-fashioned ice cream truck with his old dog riding shotgun. There’s no blaring music, just a bell that he rings when he first arrives at his chosen location. He must spend a lot of time researching sports schedules and town events, because he always seems to show up just at the end of whatever sports practice is going on at the high school. He also parks right between the middle school and high school when classes let out (and we live right near the schools), and we see him at the Farmer’s Market each week. Every kid in town knows him, and I wonder if he gets tired of hearing shrill voices yell out “Hey Papa Joe!” anytime he goes anywhere. He also works as a cashier at the grocery store. He isn’t creepy, isn’t overly friendly or fake with the kids (he’s sometimes kind of grumpy), but he is one of the local signs of summer.
When I was a kid, the ice cream truck would torment us. We lived on a cul-de-sac, and sometimes we’d hear the ice cream truck on a nearby street. We’d get so excited, run around frantically looking for loose change or a couple of bucks from our parents, then stand on the sidewalk praying for the ice cream truck to turn down our street. The bastard would drive up and down all the streets around us, but rarely our street. We weren’t allowed to leave our street, so we had to stand there listening to the music gradually fade away. :( When he did go by our house, I usually got one of those strawberry crunch bars.