Ring, Ring

The Good Humor man is missing. At least he's missing from my neighborhood. When I was younger the Good Humor truck was a nightly ritual. The familiar sound of the ringing bells sent kids on a mad dash for change, anything that could be put toward an ice cream sandwich or a toasted almond bar.

If the truck was close to the house it was often necessary to send someone out to the curb to stop the driver while money was added up to insure that everyone could get a little something.

By the end of the summer even the neighbor's dog would bark when he heard the bells. He seemed to know if he was really lucky there might be an ice cream cup for him as well.