You Scream, I Scream...

As the spring leans toward summer and the days get hotter and hazier, it reminds me of the simple joys of summer as a kid growing up in Fairborn. Afternoons spent laying in the grass behind the garage staring at the sky, sitting in front of the box fan in the hallway, and of course, getting ice cream.

There was a man with an ice cream truck who would drive up our street, his carnival-style music coaxing us from every hiding place in the neighborhood. I remember occasionally getting a treat from his truck, but mostly I remember being told that he didn't wash his hands and we were not going to buy anything from him. As an adult, I suspect that was more about money than sanitation, and I realize that he was just working to make a better living for his family, in spite of the objections of parents like mine.

In the days before Young's Dairy was common knowledge (and perhaps before it included the store we love today), the big treat in my house was a trip to Andes for ice cream. My parents would drive the Opel Cadet with my sister, brother, and I fighting in the back seat and park along the side of the building. Confusion would reign while we decided on our order. I always wanted the same thing, peppermint stick, and my fall back choice was vanilla. The lucky parent would stand in line at the little glass window with the ledge to place our order, while the other parent would try to keep the peace in the car. It always seemed like an eternity from the time I placed my order until I was licking around the base of the scoop. Silence would overtake the car until the first child failed to catch the drips that ran over fingers and found their way to the upholstery, an event never missed by the observing eyes of parents.


In high school, the favorite ice cream place was Baskin Robbins on Main Street and their 31-deful flavors. I used to collect the colorful monthly menu, always thinking that I would make a sort of calendar collage of them, but always seeming to have a missing month in each year. My friends and I would sit inside on the few hard chairs they provided, or sit outside on the short curb between the parked cars where we would endure the harsh stares of adults trying to navigate past us.

By the time I reached Wright State, the only ice cream option was Young's and the only time to visit was after dark. I wish I had a dollar for every time I drove out Dayton-Yellow Springs road, past Park Hills, through the rolling hills before Kroger and houses appeared in the fields, through Byron, past Greene Country Club, and through the sleepy village of Yellow Springs to find ice cream nirvana.

Even today, it only takes a scoop of ice cream to take me back to the wonders of childhood summers, although today's choices are more likely to be from Cold Stone Creamery or a pint of Häagen-Dazs from my freezer.

Posted to eFairborn.com