Mr Frosty

Da da da dah da . . .

I could still see the truck inching down the street like some pied piper drawing every neighborhood child from the safety of their TV sets to run around the house scurrying for fistfuls of change.

And then when the truck stopped we would be nothing more than a gaggle of screaming voices.

Ice cream Beatlemaniacs.

The man inside, who we never knew his name, and who looked nothing like the big plastic head with the whipped flip of white hair on the sign, would point to one child over another for no reason at all, and take their order.  And as he pointed with his chocolate stained white gloves, you would scurry to place your order without messing up and hand over your fistful of change as he delivered the whatever it was you ordered.

A single dip or double dip or vanilla and chocolate twist.  The twist, that was the best!

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)