Bomb Pops Away!

Let's talk about conditioning. You know what I mean: the Pavlov's dog type of thing. But I'm not talking about dogs. I'm talking about American kids and ice cream trucks. If you can resist that wonky tune as it grows closer on a hot summer day, then your local ice cream truck guy was a lot less skilled than mine was. I was carefully conditioned to a specific response. A response that was so ingrained that even years later it could override all bonds, including the bonds of marriage and basic human decency. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I grew up in the 70's and early 80's. If there was a way to predict or track when we'd see an ice cream truck then I certainly didn't know it. If you heard it then you'd better run for it or you'd miss out and there's no telling how long until you'd see it again. And it's not like you could just ask your mom for the same treat because the truck guy had that stuff on lock.

The absolute best option on the truck's picture menu was the Bomb Pop. You may disagree, but it's okay, you're allowed to be wrong. Bomb Pops have a bunch of different flavors/colors now, but when I was getting indoctrinated it was just the original (and still best) red, white, and, blue. That mix of cherry, lime, and blue raspberry offered up the perfect blend of sweet and tart. It was sticky, it was cold, it could turn your mouth red then blue; it was bliss in every way.

And as to the texture, well, to be honest, I don't feel I have the vocabulary to do it justice. I'm sure the specific ice crystal structure of a Bomb Pop has a name in the industry, but I don't know what it is. I'll just call it soft-plush-crunch because that's how it feels. I'm sure it's a result of the amount of sugar or the type of sugar or whatever. I don't care. All I know is they kept their shape but were easy to eat, even if you were a small kid with missing teeth.

Bomb Pops were and are the most iconic summer food ever. And getting them from an ice cream truck was like proof from above that you had been a good kid. It was like an example of good karma in action. You had no way to know about it in advance so your mom couldn't claim that's why you were being polite or helpful or hardworking. But if you were, and that's when the truck came, then chances were high you'd get a treat.

So that's the background, let's set the scene.

Somewhere about the sixth or seventh year of our marriage, my husband and I started renting a house that had a backyard. We weren't allowed to have any four-legged animals, so, no dog (even if it was three-legged, my husband knew I would ask), but we could do whatever else we wanted with the yard. I was excited because I wanted to try vegetable gardening.

My husband was less excited about the prospect. He had more history of living in a house with a yard (most of my youth had been spent in apartments) and had a much clearer idea of the work that would be involved. But he has always been supportive, patient, and even helpful with whatever scheme I came up with and this time was no different.

Now we get to the point.

On one memorable day during our first summer in that house, my husband and I were out in the back yard, studiously doing some form of garden work. It probably wasn't the hottest day of all time, but it was most definitely, capital letters, HOT. We were dirty and sweaty (impressive all by itself because Salt Lake City is a dry heat that will usually dry out your skin and leave it salty) and tired. And that's when I heard the music.

I. Dropped. Everything. And ran.

There were a few dollar bills in my pocket so I didn't even have to detour into the house first. I tore through the wooden side gate and pushed through the decorative swinging metal half-gate in the front yard, waving at the ice cream truck driver like a mad woman. I suppose that a child might need to gesture that wildly in order to catch a truck driver's attention, but as an adult woman it's possible it was a bit much.

In any case, he stopped and he had Bomb Pops and God was in his heaven all was right in the worlds.

He drove away and I turned around and headed back to the yard at a much more sedate pace, enjoying my Bomb Pop just as much as I ever had. It truly is one of the few childhood treats that has never lost its allure.

Through the metal half-gate, past the taller wooden side gate, back to where my husband was sitting on his heels in the dirt watching me approach with the strangest puzzled look in his eyes.

"You didn't get something for me?"

Have you ever felt like someone metaphorically smacked you in the forehead with a shovel? Leaving you Shocked. Stunned and wide-eyed. Yep, that was me.

Never, not once from the moment I heard the ice cream truck music, did my husband's existence even cross my mind. I honestly don't even remember thinking at all; it was all pure instinct.

I felt so bad! (Or, as bad as a person with cold, sugary sweetness in their hand could possibly feel...) I offered to go try to flag the guy down again but we both knew it was too late for that. I hope I offered to share my Bomb Pop with him (I don't actually remember if I did, but I'm HOPING that I tried), but it was never his favorite.

All I do remember from the aftermath is the way he shook his head at me with an exasperated and bemused look on his face. I don't think he physically stole the look from "I Love Lucy's" Ricky Ricardo, but it was definitely in that same category.

The moment became a touchstone of our marriage and to this day, more than two decades later, if I mention the ice cream truck incident he'll remember and get that exact same look on his face. I'd blame my selfishness on a lack of home learning but my mom might read this and that would be BAD (and untrue!). So we'll stick with evil ice cream truck sales strategies and their Pavlovian conditioning.