Yes. This is a real thing that actually happened.
But I digress, as per usual. So last night, as Noah and I were having a nice conversation and watching the idiot parade, I got a wicked craving for a bomber pop. Not just any old bomber pop, but one from a blue and white ice cream truck. Back in the '80s, when the old neighborhood was filled with kids, nothing thrilled us more (other than a rousing game of TV Tag) than the faint ringing of that bell. We'd run sopping wet, nicely chilled from playing in the sprinklers, beg Mom for a few bucks, and tear down the street before he drove off. There's a sort of innocence involved with the nostalgia...I still get a little giddy when I hear the ding-ding, even though there's no chance I'm going to chase that bugger down the street ever again. Even I have some dignity (I DO I SWEAR).
Totally rocking the dignified label.
Thanks to my parents having a deep freeze the size of a mini-horse, we always had plenty of frozen snacks to tide us over in the event of a no-show by our trusty truck. Now, freezie pops are good. If you ask my niece, they're probably her second favorite thing in the world besides Daddy. On a spectacularly hot day in West Fargo last summer she had three and her tongue looked like it was ready for its first Grateful Dead concert. I'm not saying she's wrong, because the cutest little girl in North Dakota can do no wrong (I can hear her daddy laughing from here), but Popsicles are really the way to go, if you ask me, which...you didn't. Just close your eyes - it's 80 degrees outside, you just got done playing in the neighbor's pool, and your mom opens the freezer and hands you a classic grape Popsicle. Or cherry! Or root beer, which is still my favorite. Sure, they were a little messier than freezie pops, but you didn't have to clean up after yourself! Watering bans aren't a thing in 1987 so you feel free to go back out and spray yourself in the face with the hose! Now go dry off because Kids Incorporated is about to start.
However, the ultimate - the pinnacle - the "thank you for staying outside and playing nice instead of straight up murdering each other" - was always Dairy Queen. Mom would take us to the junior high pool and let us loose while she got a few hours of some much deserved freedom, which I'm assuming she used to grocery shop and what not rather than having a three gimlet lunch at some dive bar (viva Blainbrook!). Even though we were tired out and positively reeking of chlorine, we'd practically squeal with delight when Mom turned instead of going straight on Central. We didn't have a lot of money back then, what with the whole single-income-two-kids situation, so getting a Blizzard or a Dilly Bar was a real treat. Although I never got the appeal of the Mr. Misty. Just have yourself a nice refreshing glass of Kool-Aid instead! You know you're not going to sell that whole pitcher anyway.