we avoided the ice cream truck for the first years of naomi’s life by claiming the sound she heard must be the church bells. that seems wrong now.
i get excited about the ice cream truck myself…remembering the chicago asphalt…the tar that was used to fill in the cracks…we’d dig it up and play with it like play-doh. i remember my mom telling us not to get ice cream from a certain truck…the man in that truck had a camera and wanted to take our pictures. yuck.
so, i hoped this guy didn’t have a camera, called out, i hear the church bells and i have money! the kids RAN out both doors of the house, met in the front yard and waved the truck down.
ah, more of this to come….i told them to save their money.
prairie daze 
Add it to the list of things that make my childhood sound pathetically deprived: I’ve never, ever had ice cream from an ice cream truck.
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Oh, that blasted ice-cream truck! I wish someone would convince me it was just the church bells.
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The neighborhood we used to live in had an ice cream man war going on. There was the regular scary man who looked as cheerful as a medieval gravedigger. Then there was the man who dragged his kids along all the time. He had better ice cream. But then, then, there was the woman in the cute little three wheeled truck. We always tried to buy from her because her song was different.
The days when the kids were little and all three trucks circled the house…..those were hard days.
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Oh, I love the ice cream truck! It was such a huge deal to get those giant, red-white-and-blue bomb pops. Mmmmmmmmmmmm…
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