The Ice Cream Man Cometh
I met Iowa’s newest — and one of its only — neighborhood ice cream truck drivers this past Friday night. I was out walking on that lovely evening through the Roosevelt neighborhood in Ames — where we had lived decades ago — when I heard what sounded like music from an ice cream truck. Surely, I thought, I’m imagining that because ice cream trucks exist only in my foggy childhood memories, don’t they?
Well, I kept walking, and I kept hearing it, so I turned north onto Roosevelt Avenue from 12th Street. And that’s when I saw it, a block ahead — a tiny ice cream truck, parked behind the stop sign at 13th. As I approached, a woman came out of the house on the corner and bought one of the frozen delights.
As soon as I got near enough to see clearly, I told the ice cream man, “You’re the guy I read about in the Ames Tribune.” And, indeed, Chad Anderson was the man the Trib had featured, front-page, a few weeks ago. That story detailed how Anderson — an employee of Iowa’s Department of Transportation — had sold his Harley-Davidson motorcycle months ago and bought a three-wheeler Cushman Truckster.
He drove 20 hours to and from Colorado to buy this mini-beauty. Then he spent weeks fixing it up — eventually equipping it with a freezer. Anderson’s “Pint-Sized Ice Cream” business was ready to roll. And roll he does, after work and on weekends, driving mostly through neighborhoods in Nevada and only recently making his way to Ames.
For many kids in those neighborhoods, it’s the first time they’ve ever seen — or heard — an ice cream truck. As for their parents — and for folks old enough to be parents of their parents, like me — it’s an incredible reminder of the younger days of our lives, when ice cream trucks were staples of many neighborhoods and childhoods.
I told Chad Anderson that his truck’s music had triggered oh-so-clear memories of my growing-up days in Fresno. On those long, hot summer evenings a lifetime ago, my buddies and I would always — always — go outside after dinner to play wiffle ball or softball or hardball — any ball we had — and on almost every one of those nights, the ice cream truck would come by on Arthur Avenue. All of us would pony up the 5-cents (or maybe it was 10) to buy our own favorite frozen treat. It was the best ice cream we would ever taste in our lives.
My favorite was a “flying saucer” concoction (flying saucers being very, very big back in those early space-age days) on a plastic spoon. That creation was shaped, yes, like a flying saucer (I knew that because I’d seen one on “The Twilight Zone”) — and it was chocolate on the outside with vanilla on the inside. When you had savored every delectable morsel, you turned over that plastic spoon to look for a small, raised number. If it was a certain number — no, I can’t remember what it was — you got a free ice cream the next night.
I remember those long-ago, absolutely glorious summer nights in Fresno as if they had taken place only yesterday — or perhaps last week. It was a great time and place to be growing up. Now, of course, the concept of “the ice cream man” is so outdated and so outlandish that people dismiss it as a mere relic — ancient history.
But not Chad Anderson. These evenings, he sees the faces of kids light up when they rush up to his little truck. And what’s even better — he sees their parents’ faces light up, as well. He told me Friday night that he’s heard stories like my childhood experiences from several people “my age.” Quickly, I told him I was only 23. He laughed. So did I. I also told him if I had my wallet with me, I’d buy an ice cream. So naturally, that “Iowa nice” thing — which I’ve written about so often — kicked in. He offered me a free ice cream.
Of course, I declined, with thanks, and continued my evening stroll. But a few minutes later, I saw him again, this time at 12th and Marston. A mom and dad and their two young children had stopped his truck to buy something for each of them. The kids were almost beside themselves with excitement. Yes, it was the first ice cream truck they’d ever seen.
I could have told them that they were making summertime memories that would stay with them all their lives — but I’m pretty sure they would have thought I was just a silly, older guy. Well, I am — but that doesn’t keep me from recalling, oh-so-fondly, those summer nights in Fresno when the world was simpler, when we all thought we’d live forever — and when that wonderful truck playing that “certain music” and carrying all those frozen delights made its way up Our Street. Yep. I wish that had all lasted — forever.