MerryMobiles and philosophical Injuns

The grass was cut, yet my front lawn still seemed to hiss and pop, fueled on by that angry, broiling star 92 million millions away. I plopped down on the front porch bench and took a long, hard draw from the pristine Gucci bottled water.

And that’s when I heard it down at the end of the street. It could have been It’s a Small World After All or an early Led Zeppelin tune for all I Know.  Then it came in to site – a battered white van with faded painted images of popsicles and ice cream cones. The driver slowly nosed down the street, a cigarette clenched between his teeth; his head swiveled lazily from left to right looking for customers.

None to be found. So he goosed that jalopy, tossed his smoke into my neighbor’s yard and continued on to the next block.

And there I was back in my old boyhood neighborhood. Country Club Manor in Evansville, circa the early and mid-1960s. Streets bearing regal names such as Kensington, Stratford, Tremont, Sheridan, Colonial and so forth. Mostly tiny and well-kept homes occupied by WW2 veterans who used the GI Bill to put roofs over the heads of their wives and offspring.

With school out that first week of June, summer did not officially begin until you first heard that tantalizing distant sound: the tinkling approach of the MerryMobile, playing crisp songs from a small PA horn. We would stand curbside and eagerly await its arrival.

It was quite a vehicle, more precious to a kid than any convertible Corvair or Sting-Ray bicycle. This was a shiny red, white, and blue vehicle, shaped like a carousel. In reality, it was an oversized, glorified golf cart. No way were you ever going to parallel park that wagon. And almost always, the MerryMobile was piloted by a late-aged teen boy more than likely a college student earning summer bucks.

We would push each other for better positioning in line when he came to our stop. Stuff like that is important when you’re clutching a quarter and maybe a couple of dimes and nickels and have an insatiable desire for brain freeze. The ice cream dude would patiently take our orders for Cherry Bombs, Eskimo Pies, frozen chocolate malteds and sundry treats, collect our money, then head down the street.

But the MerryMobile didn’t have the monopoly in Country Club Manor. He had a competitor. Today, this gentleman would be described as an independent entrepreneur. He was a rheumy-eyed old man – wrinkled nearly as much as any Real Housewife of Any Location who has neglected botox and makeup jobs for more than two days.  I don’t remember ever knowing his name, but he made an impression.

He’d come riding down the street on a three-wheeled bicycle with a large white icebox mounted beneath the steering handles. His popsicles weren’t quite as cold, often half melted, and the selection was rather meager. But they were cheaper. And occasionally, if he was little liquored up, he would share anecdotes about his life.

I seem to recall him claiming to be “half Injun,” a description which no longer is politically correct to utter. Something about hitching rides on trains without buying tickets. Fighting with hobos. Warned us to stay in school and similar advice adults always seem to dole out to youngsters.

Then he would pull his greasy cowboy hat forward a bit to shield his eyes from the sun, accept our coins, and pedal away. It might be tomorrow or three days later before you saw him again.

Eventually, he quit coming. And a few years later, the MerryMobile was gone, too.

This is a slice of the summer of my youth, so many sizzling decades ago. But I still treat myself to an occasional brain freeze at other venues. You just can’t get the same effect from designer water.