Whistlin' About Dixie Cups

Central Park, NYC, circa summer 2018

Our Good Humor ice cream man's name was Smitty. I remember thinking what an odd name that was, until my mom told me his last name must be Smith. Ahh. So no first name at all then, which seemed even odder. I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

Every summer evening, Smitty showed up, in his white pants and white shirt and white truck, to serve us our chocolate eclairs and toasted almonds and jet stars and, for the truly unimaginative -- like my brother, as I recall -- vanilla dixie cups with the little wooden spoons that didn't really look like spoons. Smitty was all but forgotten by the time he secured the big shiny lever on the tiny freezer door, tipped his white hat, and went on his way. Except for the one evening that Kenny from the sixth floor and some of the older boys on the block threw eggs from Kenny's terrace at Smitty's truck as he drove off. I could never figure out why anyone would throw eggs at anybody or, for that matter, any thing, much less Smitty and his truckload of treasures. 

Eventually, Smitty and his little white truck were replaced by a bigger truck and a driver whose name none of us bothered to learn. I have rarely thought about Smitty, or even Kenny, whom I had thought was kind of cute until I saw him throwing eggs. Older boy or not, I at least had some standards. 

In the suburban neighborhood where I raised my own kids, a lifetime and just as many miles away from my girlhood home, there was an ice cream truck, I think. Occasionally I would see parents and their small children gathering on the appointed corner at the appointed time, but it never seemed anything like those summer nights in the sixties on the quasi urban streets of Brooklyn. Our moms never came out to wait with us; they threw us little purses filled with change from the terraces -- dropping them straight down so they wouldn't land on anybody. Terraces were handy launching pads, I suppose, back in the day, both for good and for evil. 

This morning, I watched my daughter run a race in Central Park with her co-workers. The race had a retro theme -- people wore bright sweat bands and leg warmers and psychedelic sun glasses and afro wigs. It was adorable, but I fretted to think that's as retro as folks get these days. Until I saw the little Good Humor truck drive up into a clearing, with the guy in the white pants and white shirt and white hat looking exactly the way Smitty used to look. Mostly, everybody seemed to ignore the truck. I just stared (and snapped a picture). 

I thought about Smitty, about how I simply expected him to be there, every evening, even after the egg incident. Serving up sweet treats, but, more than that, an invaluable thread in the fabric of my childhood.  Thank you for your service, Smitty, wherever you are.