POPSICLE MAN

by Kathleen De Witt

A nickel may not be worth much now, but back in the 1950s in North Attleboro, Massachusetts, it was a fortune to a little kid on a summer’s afternoon, because that was when the ice cream man would drive up in his white box-shaped ice cream truck.

Our parents may have known his real name, but to us kids he was always “Popsicle Man.” His white suit and cap matched his truck, and he always wore a black bow tie.

I lived in the blue collar section of town, right across from the Veteran’s Housing Project. This wasn’t like a city project; instead of tall apartment buildings, these were individual small ranch or cape houses, rented at reduced rates to the veterans who had served in WW II.

There were a lot of children in the project, so the ice cream man stopped there every day. Like dogs, we children could hear the sound of the truck bells long before our parents could, and would begin begging for nickels before the truck came into view.

By the time the truck pulled up, there was a line of kids waiting. We would giggle and point excitedly to the pictures of ice pops, fudge pops, ice cream cones, and other treats plastered on the side of the truck. My favorites were raspberry ice pops and fudge pops. They had double sticks and could be broken down the middle so I could save one for later if I wanted.

There were times when some parents couldn’t afford a nickel, but those of us who couldn’t buy would run out anyway to see what the other kids were getting.

One particularly hot July afternoon, I had no nickel. Several of my friends had no funds either. We stood in the shade of the truck, faces flushed and beads of sweat on our foreheads. As the other lucky kids walked away enjoying their treats, the Popsicle Man looked down at the sad faces of those of us that hadn’t bought any.

“Wait a minute,” he said. He turned around and bent down inside the truck. We could hear scraping and clunking sounds. Before we could ask each other what he was doing, he turned around again. In his hands were a half-dozen Popsicles, and he gave one to each of us. Inside the wrapper, the top of each flopped over.

“Be careful when you open them," he cautioned. “They’re broken."

I handed mine back to him, explaining that I didn't have a nickel. The other kids began to do the same. Popsicle Man pushed them back into our hands.

“I can’t take broken ones back to the factory, so you kids may as well take them,” he said. “I’ll just have to throw them out if you don’t.”

We didn’t need much urging. And somehow each one of us received our favorite flavor. When I close my eyes I can still taste that raspberry pop. I don’t think anything has tasted that delicious since.

Popsicle Man must have been pretty careless. From that day on there seemed to be quite a few broken Popsicles, but luckily there was always a kid or two without a nickel that could take them off his hands.