Week 94: Ice Cream Truck

End of June means ice cream cone time. I can see this truck is a grill truck, but the packaging this Hot Wheels came in said Ice Cream Truck, and that ominous lurker inside the truck could just as easily be serving a Creamsicle as a burger. On closer inspection, he could just as easily be serving a big bowl  ...of TERROR!! TERROR WITH SPRINKLES!!!! Or cheese and onions.

The flames in front of his shadowy figure do lend a slight creep factor.

Whatever the case, we're going to assume he's serving frozen novelties.

My wife suggested we go out for ice cream today, and even though my wife's birthday is a few days away, she subtly leveraged that proximity to convince me to go out, so we packed up two of the three kids (Racer Z one was at his grandparents) and hit the road.

Don't misunderstand: I love ice cream. I really do. My reticence to go out was based on a much more ridiculous trepidation: watching little kids, at least my little kids, eat ice cream cones stresses me out.

Before you think I'm some kind of monster like the shadow man behind the flames above, let me explain. I completely recognize the cute factor and my heart swoons in an "oh-my-goodness-how-sweet" sappiness as much as the next guy as I watch children and their serious concentration as they eat a cone. I am thrilled at how much happiness a simple cone brings to them. I even find it cute how the little ones manage to cover their faces completely in ice cream. I'm no monster.

Yes, what causes me stress nonetheless is partly the drippy, sticky mess, but, much more significantly, it is the ever-present threat of the Dropped Cone. Neither a balloon lost at a fair nor a toy cracking underfoot can create the heart-rending sorrow and subsequent wailings of a child who has dropped the cone.

I frankly don't need that kind of pressure.

Of course I lobbied for G to order ice cream in a cup, affecting my voice in the most salemen-y of tones as I prepared myself to use every objection as an opportunity to sell, but before I even began I was discounted by everyone, including my wife. I'm fairly certain I was discounted by the guy standing behind me.

Baby G was anticipating a cone. Nobody knew of my secret fears. Cone it was.

Baby G is three years old and a particularly neat eater, and someone without cone drop phobia might see this as reason to worry less, but to me, it's the opposite. G's a neat eater. That means he rejects help.  That means he's confident, and some, like myself, might say cocky. He's going it alone, regardless of the dangers, dangers the little tyke can barely comprehend. No Drop, Do.

We get our cones and sit on a bench on the side of the ice cream parlor, and after quickly realizing my hovering by his cone was only more likely to cause G to pull away than help, I backed off. Of course G had chosen to sit a good five feet down from my wife, and as she told him to scoot closer, my heart skipped a beat. Everyone knows the takeoff and landing on a seat is the most dangerous time in cone eating.

G began doing that butt-wiggle scoot that only moves a kid a few millimeters at a time, and it was apparent that would take about a half hour for him to actually move down the bench, by which time the ice cream would be melted. I had to tell him to stand and walk down. I don't think he heard the fear in my voice, but it was there. Oh, it was there.

He did fine, though, and began eating the cone. This is important to understand, however: we were at a home-made style frozen custard stand, meaning the custard is scooped into the cones. Why is this important? It's obvious. These cones lack the symmetry and balance of a machine spun cone. These are not starter cones, people. These are drippy, tricky dairy challenges and require much more spinning and skill. I'm surprised they even let kids in the place at all.

Man did he do well, though, and really didn't even drip that much -- I think I got as much custard on my shirt as he did on my shirt. We were down to the final stretch, the last inch and a quarter of circular cone bottom, and then out of the stinking blue it happened. The cone dropped, amazingly landing flat on its bottom on the bench, and without missing a beat G scooped it up and resumed eating.

For a moment I considered throwing myself on top of the cone to save him, but I was sure that would have gotten me thrown out, so instead I looked at my wife and said, "We need to make sure we get that before he gets to the bottom." I could not read her expression.

He is three and we had ordered a small cone, not the baby size we usually get, so I kind of thought he would not be able eat it all. I was counting on it. Still, I moved in close, just in case. I had actually stood up off the bench at this time and was standing directly in front of him.

Did he know my plans? I'll never know, but like a panther eating chocolate soft-serve homemade custard in a cone, G shoved the entire thing in his mouth, not his style. I saw the bottom of the circle disappear as his lips closed about it, only to come back out, any germs from the bench having already stepped off the cone into his mouth like giggly pre-teens off a roller coaster. He took a bite, and the circle became a half moon.

I had failed.

Did he understand my intentions? I doubt it, but who knows. I guess it was like a hardcore marathon runner who pees herself or pukes on his muscle T-shirt and keeps going -- nothing is going to stop them from crossing that finish line.

It was done. I looked at him, and grudgingly thought to myself, "Good game, sir. Well played." We went to the restroom to wash our hands.



The above Ice Cream Truck is part of the Wheels HW City Works 2011 collection. Phil has not yet returned as my photographer, so this one was shot by me -- the background, by the way, is a napkin and not an albino cantaloupe. On an unrelated note, don't you think the crossed spatulas in front of the burger on the truck look like the head of an Imperial Storm Trooper from Star Wars? Yeah, me too.

Week 93: 1947 Chevy Fleetline

Week 93: Guest photographer, Racer A, age 5.

This blue Fleetline looks like a father to me - classic, sporty yet old, playful yet with furrowed brows.

I had a great Father's Day, and was able to to go out to dinner with my wife and kids, including my oldest son, who is 22 and doesn't have a nickname on this blog. If he requests one I will come up with something, but for now he is simply Spencer. Spencer's girlfriend, a talented artist and all around nice person, also joined us.

We went to a restaurant / tavern in Cleveland Heights called The Winking Lizard, a place I often frequented before moving to Geauga County. We went for pizza and wings, but even with what one might assume to be safe fare, dinner excursions with kids always hold the potential to go awry. In the the time it takes a piece of pizza to travel from your plate to your mouth, a peaceful family dinner can explode into complaining, crying, tantrums, sprinkler systems going off, even a green olive in the eye. You just don't know what you're going to get.

This time, however, I got a smiling crew with no tears or fights (and I'm not just saying this because I was able to hoist a nice pint, either). A table behind me had a huge family gathering, and three minutes after we were seated one of the kids, leaning back on his chair, tumbled backwards and smackered his head on the floor. He was okay, but, it could have been my table, and it wasn't. Now that's a happy Father's Day.

After finishing up our dinner, Spencer and I began talking about spicy foods, and it finally led to us ordering six Magma wings, the hottest wings on the menu. The deal was we both would eat three.

My wife was concerned, and asked if I wanted a glass of milk on hand. My son and I shook our heads and sighed a laugh. She just didn't understand the unspoken rules of hot foods and guys -- the wings would need to be way higher up on the Scovil scale to make it respectable for milk. There are rules, people.

The wings came and we launched in, both experiencing a mild disappointment after our first wing when we realized that, while hot, it wasn't that bad. Then we began our second wing.

I'm not going to lie -- there was a delay to the burn.

Baby G, amazed at the bravery
of father and son. I was going
to Photoshop the food out of
his mouth, but didn't. My
apologies.  

One piece of celery, folks. And notice
I'm pacing my beer.

Spencer, nonchalantly
checking to make sure his
lips are still there. 

Photographed in Spencer-vision
as the heat from wing three
blurs his vision.

Racer A (left) receiving expert tips in the post game hot wing
eating event. Racer Z (right), possibly thinking idiots.

Yes, I had a great Father's Day. I don't do a lot of traditional guy things, particularly since I'm not a sports fan person, so getting to eat crazy hot wings washed down with a beer was wonderful, and, as I only ate three, I could also feel sensible.

And when all was said and done, the wings weren't that hot. I wonder how Spencer would feel about going for Quaker Steak and Lube's Triple Atomic?

No, maybe not, and if we do, I will order a glass of milk.

The rules, while unwritten, state it's okay.

Week 92: Peterbilt milk truck

Okay, that Peterbilt milk truck is from the 80s, and while worn, hardly is from the same era as the vintage milkman's order pad, but they are both vintage, and both have something to do with milk.

I don't really like milk, to be honest, although I like milk trucks, milk cans, milk bottles, and milk maids. I've never met a milk maid, but I'm positive  they look like the logo from St. Pauli Girl beer.

Real men don't drink 2%

 I can almost remember the milk man -- that was so long ago, and I was very, very young, but I was nonetheless around at a time when milk was delivered. The only thing I remember was the glass milk bottles clinked in the metal carrier.

It has been many years since milk clinked, and because my youngest had difficulty with milk, we've had a variety of non-clinking milk substitutes in the house over the years, including soy, coconut, hemp and almond. These products are strange to me, not because they likely have never been drawn by a milk maid, but because they all come in cardboard cartons with the pour spout on the front, smack in the middle. You no longer push the little cardboard triangle on the side to make a spout  like it's always been done since milk cartons were invented. I can't get used to that -- it's like a person having an ear where his nose should be. Even plastic milk jugs pour from the top, not the side. Weird.

My youngest son, now three years old, has taken to wanting warm soy milk at night. Every night I pour some soy milk in a coffee cup to heat it up in the microwave before pouring it into one of my son's cups with a built-in straw, and every night my son tells me he doesn't want to drink out of the coffee cup. By now, I know he knows I'm only using the coffee cup to heat the soy milk in, but letting me know he doesn't want the coffee cup is just part of the ritual. It's a comfortable ritual, like when I say, "You know, you are a peanut, actually" and he says "NO! I'm not a peanut, daddy. But you are a raspberry." This makes no sense, but we  say it every day, anyway. It's just a comfortable ritual.

Anyway, I like my little beat up 1981 Matchbox truck. Due to a busy schedule, my photographer Phil will not be able to take pictures for the next few weeks or more, so I tossed my car on my scanner, afraid to take an actual photograph with a camera for fear it would look too inferior to the pictures I normally feature on this blog.  I'm not sure why I thought a scanned picture would be somehow better, but now it's grown on me so I think I'll keep it.

My apologies if this blog, and tiny car picture, didn't make much sense this week. Consider this week's entry the skim milk of Daddy's Tiny Cars, lacking in taste and richness, but still okay in cereal.

I guess what I'm saying is Week 92 barely arrived, and only made it as a comfortable ritual. Here's looking forward to Week 93, you peanut.

Week 91: Vintage Matchbox Cattle Truck

This week's tiny car selection, another vintage find in the form of a made-in-England Matchbox, may be a new favorite, and I think my first two part vehicle, what with the trailer and all.

My original plan was to do a farming/planting theme, as over the past few weeks I've planted flowers  and tended to some basil and oregano in planters with my kids, and while the picture above is a cattle truck, I've employed worst thematic connections than that on this blog in the past.

The theme of this week's entry changed, however, when I dropped the car, and not in a metaphorical sense like the week before last when I didn't get the car to Phil, who usually takes the pictures. No, this time I actually dropped the car, on the cement, in the garage.

When I picked it up I noticed a part of the brittle plastic in the back of the truck was missing.

Now the issue is I don't know if that piece had been broken prior to dropping it or after. The car was in a collection of random vintage cars my father had picked up for me at a yard sale, so I didn't intimately know the details of this truck and had only recently taken it out of the box in which it had been stored. I looked around on the ground but couldn't find the broken piece.

My immediate reaction at dropping the car was disappointment and anger at myself, but when I thought about the likelihood of the piece having already been broken (this car and trailer are from the bicentennial year of 1976), my frustration evaporated.

So there I was, my mind not knowing whether to be upset or not as it was missing a crucial bit of information as to whether or not I was responsible for the damage. When I told myself the piece was already broken, the stress evaporated like traces of rain from a sun hot sidewalk, but then my mind would say, "Come on. You're just kidding yourself, You KNOW you broke this wonderful vintage truck," and the evaporating irritation would rain down, weighing down my mood like waterlogged denim.

At some point, I realized I would never know if I was responsible or not, and as such would never know if I needed to feel bad. Or not. I would have to choose.

I knew no matter what, my dropping of that car was purely a mishap and  not connected to irresponsibility. I simply just dropped the car, so I didn't feel bad about acting foolishly.

What eventually came to me was if I could choose to feel good or bad when I didn't know if I had been responsible for the broken gate on the truck, would I also be capable of choosing if I had known the gate was had previously not been broken if I knew it was simply an accident? And if I would feel differently, why?

I'll leave the above thoughts as questions for you to think about. I can't truly answer them, and while I want to say it doesn't matter if the piece broke off then or sometime in the era of disco ....

Maybe I'll get there someday.



This great picture of a great vintage Matchbox courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, who did not drop the truck.