In the summer months a small white box truck slowly cruises the streets around here playing organ grinder music from a rusty loudspeaker mounted on it's roof.
For the first five and a half years of my oldest sons life he thought it was the "music truck".
It drove around playing music, the house was far enough away from the road that they never could make out the details of the "decoration" the music truck had on it's sides.
Five and a half years on the oldest one and a little over four for his brother and then one day they went to play at a friends house. I heard the music truck, faint and broken on the still summer air and then a little clearer and a little louder. The minutes ticked by as the dreamlike carnival sounds waxed and waned and that first chapter of parenthood came to it's end. No longer would my children live in a world where people drove around in trucks playing music "just because".
When my wife brought them home I could see the story on their faces and hands and shirts. They knew.
"Hey Dad! Guess what? the Music Truck sells Ice Cream!"
"Oh really? huh"
"Yeah, you can stop him as he goes by and he sells Ice Cream!"
"Wow, Music and Ice Cream, well, we don't usually have any cash for the ice cream so we may not be able to stop the truck"
"That's OK, the Music truck takes credit cards"
Merry Christmas everyone.
lain:
