Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro....

When I was a little girl, my neighborhood pals and I would spend our summer evenings waiting for the Hoodsie. The "Hoodsie" was the bright white ice cream truck, painted with vibrant animations of Hood ice cream treats that were sure to thrill any kid on the block. With quarters pressed into the palms of our hands, we sat on the curb at the corner of Appleton and Metcalf Streets and waited, listening for the sound of the music that announced the arrival of our after-dinner treat. Blue popsicles, strawberry shortcake bars, orange sherbert push-ups...so many treats, so few days of summer vacation to enjoy them!

I remember the anticipation. I remember the excitement. I remember chasing after that ice cream truck at full speed, as fast as my 7-year-old legs would take me, on the evenings that the ice cream truck arrived fifteen minutes too early and passed our corner without stopping. And I remember the devastation on the nights the Hoodsie failed to show.

These memories help me understand how my children must feel when the ice cream truck rolls down our street. The only problem is that the Bloomingdale ice cream truck is not exactly the "Hoodsie" I remember. It's a dirty, beat-up old van that has seen better days. The ice cream stickers on the side are faded and peeling. The back window is cracked and the words "WASH ME!" are rubbed into the black grime, along with a big happy face and what appears to be King Kong's penis.

The creepy ice cream truck wheels through the Estates at River Crossing every afternoon at 5pm, right before supper time, blaring a sickly old tape recording of "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" from what must be a crankshaft music box made in 1912. It's the stuff horror movies are made of. The greasy-haired driver flashes his gold-toothed grin. The guy in the passenger seat flicks his ciggy out the window and furrows his brow as he scans the 'hood with his beady eyes. The van moves slowly...a little TOO slowly...so even the slowest kid on the block can catch him.

It is to the point that whenever I hear the creepy music from the creepy ice cream truck with the creepy ice cream guys, I get a sharp pain in my right eye and a shiver dances up and down my spine. This is what I call "Maternal Instinct" kicking in. Without fail Casey's eyes will grow to the size of saucers and he will begin begging, desperately, for ice cream. Sometimes I give in to his pleading. But as the weird guy hands me the cherry-flavored-2-ball-screwball I give myself a mental head slap. This ice cream truck gives me the heebie-jeebies.


It's not right. Buying ice cream from the ice cream truck should be a source of childhood innocence and pleasure. But this truck taints the picture "twisted." It's really, really hard to order my son a Mega Missile popsicle while staring at a crude finger-sketch of King Kong's member.

As my friend Beth says..."Good Humor? My ass!"
And that just about says it all!