Christina exchanges moolah for mmmmmmmm.^Christina furnishes evidence every evening just before dusk that some of our childhood sticks close by no matter how old we get. She's facing 50 in August (and now eagerly anticipates her AARP magazine), but when that ice cream truck's god-awful calliope chimes up the block, she bolts out the door, change in hand, ready for her ice cream sandwich.
Of course, I can't eat the 'scream (diabetes), but I can appreciate the sentiment ... if not the music. The truck's loop ranges from funeral dirges to Christmas and Easter music to drawing room baroque. None of it fits, but, hey, it's the children's equivalent of an alarm: "The Ice Cream Man Cometh!" And that never changes. Even when you're pushing 50.
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