At the start of the summer
I remember those long-ago summers...
I remember the summers of my early childhood for especially two things: the sound of the cicadas, and the sound of the ice cream truck approaching our street.
I remember the cicadas as being happiest when it was sweltering, and the chirring sound they made was like the shaking of tambourines.
The truck, I remember, had a row of bells across the top of the windshield. I remember that sometimes I heard both sounds at the same time and it was beautiful to me.
I remember the emotion of the moment when we kids heard the truck coming. I remember we would stop whatever we were doing and run.
The Good Humor music started playing. For us, it was not the trigger for joy but hysterical panic that the truck would cross the boulevard where we were not allowed to go, ruining our chances for an afternoon treat.
“STOP!” we shrieked as we ran.
I remember every part of the Marino Ices you ate with a flat, wooden spoon. I remember my favorite flavor was cola. I remember you had to use the spoon to pry the block away from the sides and then flip the ice over. I remember that was the payload: the frozen, sticky sugar that collected at the bottom of the cup. I remember I would suck on the spoon long after I’d finished it because the wood tasted good, too.
'El Dorado'. That was the emblazoned name of the ice-cream vendor who trundled his, for it was before the days when it could just as likely be her, truck into our street back in those summers of my childhood. What a treat, when there was still money sufficient in the family kitty on a Tuesday or Wednesday evening before each Thursday's pay day at the car factory our father worked and earned .most but not all, of the family crust in. As to what seductive, addictive, "trust in me, you need ice-cream" tune that was blasted out... why it escapes me, as I write.
Cool post Camila, comment always resonant.