The Dime That Bought a Rich Taste of Summer

First -- that bell having alerted your senses -- you had to start devising a way to get your hands on the 10 cents, or 20 cents, that you'd need. Never go into your piggy bank for such things: That was Christmas shopping money, school-supplies money, money for your wonderful Aunt Creola's birthday gift.

With Mister Softee circling, it was time to go for the parent. How they loved you! How you loved them! How you needed an ice cream cone. You tugged and tugged at Mom's dress, even while she's on the phone, telling you to go sit down until she gets off the line. But you can't, you just can't, because Mister Softee is out there, and you're pointing out the window, your arm straight as a ruler.

There were times, of course, when the answer depended on the mood in the household.

A recent argument between Mom and your sisters? Between Mom and Dad, who lives across town, who has remarried? Aim for the minimum. Go for the dime.

But -- the sun shining, Mom's new dress just arrived from that store in Hollywood, dinner light enough to keep her out of the kitchen for long spells (leftovers, coleslaw: summer eating) -- go for the 20 cents!

"Hand me my purse," she'd say, her mood light, swirling a soda pop in her hands. You'd yelp, drop that arm, race for her purse, which was sitting there on the living-room chair, beside the sewing machine. Those were golden words, and they made you giddy. And there you are, emptying her purse, a nickel here, a dime there. That 50-cent piece? (They had those in 1962.) Hand that thing to Mama. She didn't even know it was down there, amid the nutmeg face powder.

The clock's about to strike 7. Our Mister Softee always seemed to come around 7.

And there you are, front and center, on the porch. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting. About to have a conniption fit because Terry and Marcus and Zachary and Sheila down the street are already in line where the truck is parked, and they're twisting themselves in a frenzy, Sheila with her hula hoop, luckiest girl in the world with a double cone of vanilla with sprinkles and now walking away twirling her hoop and licking her ice cream.

Finally, here he comes, rolling to a stop (double parking) in front of 1343 N. Fifth. The trees throwing shade, the coming cars knowing to slow up, to squeeze around, Mama coming out onto the porch, handing you 20 cents. "Get me a double scoop of strawberry. In a cup."

Other friends coming from around the sides of their houses -- they were playing marbles, they were splashing in someone's plastic pool, they were in their garages playing. We were all munchkins, in Oz for a few moments of a summer's day, happy and sticky and comfortable, surrounded by people who cared for us, who saw something orderly and tender in children, their children, enveloped in that habit of summer, staring at Mister Softee and his truck.