You could hear the ice cream coming from a mile away. The incessant "Pop Goes the Weasel" tune it played must have driven the poor ice cream man insane by the end of the day.
There was a lazy susan sitting on a cart by the back door leading into the garage. Mom always put a dime there for me so that when I heard the music, I could go get a popsicle. Cherry. And if I broke it in half lengthwise, I could enjoy some of it now and save the rest of it for later.
No comments:
Post a Comment