
Every time I hear the bells of the ice cream truck, I smell fish.
It’s a primal response really, and it’s not a bad smell, like rotting fish in the sand dunes melting in the summer sun.
More like a ‘we’re getting a babysitter and going out; fishsticks for dinner’ smell of my very early childhood.
When I was a newlywed living in the good section of a bad city, the ice cream truck visited my street, which was the very best part of living there. Growing up in the country, there were no ice cream trucks like you see on tv or in the movies. No Good Humor, Mister Softee or anything in between. It just wasn’t worth the gas mileage to get from house to house in hopes of finding one or two takers, and parents willing to fork over the dough.
So when I first heard the bells, I bounded down the stairs and flew out the door when the ice cream truck came up the street those warm summer nights where we owned our first home in Bridgeport, Connecticut.
But then it hit me. The distinct whiff of fish sticks.
Before my parents moved to the rural country bumpkin – what’s zoning? – small town where I grew up, they too were newlyweds and new parents of moí, and lived in affordable, side walked, suburbia America, with young families, street lights, kick ball, and ice cream trucks.
I was just a little thing, 4 or 5 maybe, and the jingle of bells singled bedtime. My dad whisked me off the street and carried me into the house, slung over his shoulder face down in his back, while the other kids ran home to get money for – what?
“Here comes the fish truck,” my dad said. “Late supper for those kids; they must be starving!”
Apparently I believed him; and fish was cemented into my muscle memory. Or at least my nose-hole memory.
A ga-zillion years later when their baby became a newlywed, my own parents sat on the stoop of our first home on side-walked lined streets where kids played in the middle of the road, and the ice cream truck rounded the corner and blasted the familiar jingle, sending the kickball players scurrying back to their respective homes, begging money for the promise of frozen treats: soft-whipped cherry dips, frozen spider mans, ninja turtles with a gum-ball nose, big sundae cups, red, white & blue bomb pops that melt down your wrist to your elbow, orange dreamy creamsicles, drumsticks, fudgesicles, and push-up pops. You’re never too old for an ice cream truck treat. It was why we moved here. So delicious, yet still so fishy.
My parents were stoop sitting, watching the action unfold when I came out to greet the truck, money in hand, ready to treat my parents to a taste of city living.
Without me saying a word, my mom said, “Oh, look, a fish truck!” and my father laughed a booming laugh, as the music blared from the white truck tattooed with colorful stickers of promises frozen inside, which tricked my nose, made my mouth water, and my heart remember.
What a fun memory! What a smart Dad and he got away with it too!
smart dad, dumb daughter!
This was so funny to me because we just moved into a subdivision, a first for us, and we saw an ice cream truck go by our house two days in a row. I remember one that came by when I was a small child like 3 or 4, but then we moved and never had one again. Today, at 46, I can’t tell you how excited I was at the prospect of an ice cream truck going by the house so Friday night I made sure I had some cash and I had my twins grandchildren, who are under two so didn’t have a clue, we waited and waited out on the front porch and he didn’t come by. I was heart broken. I’ve been humming that tune in my head all week!
It’ll happen, and then fish sticks for everyone!
I grew up in New York City back in the 50’s and early 60’s. I so miss Good Humor and Mr. Softee trucks. My Dad sold Good Humor at one point in his life long before I was born, on a cart attached to a bicycle. I know they sell some Good Humor in grocery stores, but it will never be the same.
I hope you have a pic of your dad on that bike! What a great image!
i grew up in east jesus maine – no ice cream trucks, no fish trucks, nothing. we had dairy queen. we’d beg to stop if we were in town. as we’d pass he’d say “my car can’t make the turn” and drive right by. where was my first job in high school? dairy queen.
uggggghhhh, you musta been so frustrated to drive right by!