Ice cream man on a Harley Davidson

 I remember the ice cream man cruising our neighborhood in a postwar trike that the police also used. His was painted white with decals of treats on the ice box that made kids drool. There were ice cream cones and suckers, orange-flavored cream cycles, and fudge bars. But the best treat was the ice cream man himself. He was a large man who always had a smile and a kind word. He was born in Greece and came to America as a young man seeking his fortune, but like so many others, his fortune eluded him. After the war, in which he proudly served, he used his savings to buy a 1940 Harley-Davidson three-wheeler with a box on the side. He painted it white and insulated the box to keep things inside cold. He wore white coveralls, a white hat, and a smile for every kid. Every weekday, he'd fill the box with treats and head out to neighborhoods around six o'clock, ringing the bell he had installed on the handlebars to let everyone know he was nearby. When he stopped, kids would pour out of houses with nickels and dimes to buy a treat while parents waved and he waved back. The box didn't take long to empty, and he'd head back to his large freezer in the garage to restock it, then head back out until darkness came and the box was empty again. On Saturdays, he'd sometimes be called upon to attend children's birthday parties, where he'd park in front of a house and a dozen or so revelers wearing birthday hats ran out to choose a frozen treat that the parents of the birthday boy or girl paid for, along with a nice tip. When the last kid got a treat, he started up the trike and headed for another neighborhood where outdoor barbecues were being held, and families gathered for a backyard picnic. He'd ring the bell and sit still as kids begged parents for a quarter, some who dug into their pockets and came up with one while others had a hissy fit when told not today.

I can still visualize his trike and the sound of the bell. I can taste the creamcicles and ice cream sandwiches and hear his genuine laughter as he handed out treats until the box was empty, leaving behind the wooden sticks licked clean as chocolate faces smiled and waved goodbye until next time. I believe he continued to roam the neighborhoods well into his senior years, until one day the bell stopped ringing and kids quit waiting. Soon after, larger ice cream trucks came into the neighborhoods with music blasting one song on repeat, and someone inside handed out many different kinds of frozen treats that cost twice what they used to when a white Harley-Davidson with a box on the side rolled into your neighborhood.

                                   Mike 2026                                          

Mike 2026