Back in Your Arms Again

Spent the weekend with my kids in Ocean City, MD, having a great time: Hot weather, sand, a water park, hoagies and the sounds of the Good Humor truck.

To Jack and Ruby (and I suspect all other children), the jingle this truck plays is akin to a high-pitched sound that only dogs hear: My kids turn their heads, their eyes get very large, and they stop what they are doing to pay attention, even if they happen to be already eating ice cream at the time.

I had the same reaction when I was a kid when Mr. Softee came down our street. Yes, it was a truck with ice cream that also played an addicting tune, but also because our own MR. SOFTEE ONLY HAD ONE ARM. Or, more accurately, one arm and another that ended just above his elbow. And without fail, he wore a short sleeve shirt every time.

So we could all look at his lack of full appendage, I guess.

I would get to the truck's window, and before I could order anything my eyes would go, without fail, to the stub at the end of his left arm. I practiced my order when I was in line, but I would always hesitate for a moment when I got to him because I stopped to stare at the smooth, rounded skin that protruded about an inch from the end of his shirt sleeve.

What a mystery this was. Did he lose his arm because it got stuck in the soft-serve machine? Did it get mangled in the milkshake mixer? Or possibly more realistically, did he lose it at the hands of some German or Japanese soldier during service in The Big One? Of course, I was too shy to ask and besides, the mystery of it was better anyway.

And although the arm, or lack thereof, was oft-putting, Mr. Softee himself, as I remember him, was as nice as could be. Kind, patient and he always gave more-than-adequate servings. His uniform was neat, clean and pressed to a fault. He even wore the little paper hat, cocked just right on his head.

His was the perfect image of the ready-to-serve Mr. Softee.

Except for that missing arm.