The Unspoken Value of the Ice Cream Truck
Memories from 1956 still shine
Memories of the Bungalow Bar ice cream truck ring bright in Roger Pierangelow’s mind, even 70 years later. He shares his childhood story in Boomer’s “From Our Readers.”
There were very few things that could stop energetic 9-year-olds in their tracks on 251st in 1956 other than the ringing bell of the Bungalow Bar Truck as it turned the corner ever so slowly in the summer between 4th and 5th grades.
The summer had just started. But for all of us on 251st Street in Bellerose it was not the warm weather, the sunny days, stickball, or no school that defined the summer, it was the Bungalow Bar Truck. When Eddie, the Bungalow Bar Truck driver, started ringing the bells it was like the movie “Clockstoppers,” where a teenager discovers a device that can stop time. When that truck turned down 251st Street and started ringing its bells, everyone froze in their tracks, either already prepared with their 10 cents in their pocket or running frantically to their house to get the money before the truck pulled away.
The picture played out the same every day, but the excitement that developed when the truck came to a stop was just as high the next day. We would all try to clamber to the front to see if there were any added items pasted on the side.
The truck would usually pull up in front of my grandmother’s house because six of the band of brother’s houses were all within 40 feet and that is usually where we spent time together playing stickball.
It was not pushing to get to the front because we all knew we would get our special choice that day from Eddie. It was the pressure of reading every item on the side of the truck and making a major decision before the man said, “And what would you like?” No one wanted to hear “hurry up,” “make your mind up,” or “before I die, please” from the crowd, so we all had our standby in case we ran out of time. But if that happened, we were upset all day that you chose out of pressure rather than got something whose taste would be with you all day.
We sat on the curb, mesmerized by the daily treat that was in our hands, our eyes aghast with pleasure. We were biting, licking, slurping whatever we each got, and on an extremely sweltering hot day, our tongues moved across the cone or pop with sonic speed so none of the ice cream melted and fell to the ground or on our shorts. We never thought that there was anything weird about a house on wheels where you could get ice cream every time you opened the front and side door. That was the cool part.
During this curb experience, we each became ice cream critics and were extremely interested if one of us got something brand new that no one had tried, like a Choo Choo crunch bar. On hot days, the tri-colored red, white, and blue popsicles were gifts from heaven. For me, I never got the dixie cups because the wooden spoon the man gave us to eat it always gave me chills, like chalk on a chalkboard. Not sure why, so if I wanted that I would have to bring a spoon from my house. The only problem was when we went to play stickball after our treat, we had trouble letting go of the bat with our sticky hands.
Sure, my mother had ice cream in the freezer, but it was never the same. For us it was the sound of the bells, the sound of the opening of the ice cream freezer doors, the unmistakable thud as the doors closed, and the start of the bell ringing as the driver pulled away to his next stop.
The rest of the day we were all occupied by tag, stickball, board games, pools, and water balloon fights. But when the sun went down and I was tucked in to bed, it was not those activities that I would replay in my head. Rather, it was at the side of the Bungalow Bar truck as I tried to finalize my order for the next day. In between choices, I leaned over from under the covers and made sure my dime was still there, waiting. Because tomorrow, just like magic, the bells would ring again.
Dr. Roger Pierangelo has been a clinical and forensic psychologist for 45 years and has also been a graduate professor and executive director of a national special education association. He has written numerous books and articles. His stories come from his working memoir about growing up as a Boomer, called The Baby Boomer Diaries.
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