Today I made an attempt at recapturing my childhood.

I awoke to the sound of a jingling melody wafting through my bed room
window from the street below. It began faintly, and grew in intensity as I
roused from a dead sleep. There are train tracks that run about 20 yards
from my house, and the metallic beasts that grumble over them continually
blare their horns, but I never notice those ever-screaming greetings. Yet,
the synthetic music gently drifting into my room drew me to my feet, and I
was running, dazed and bleary-eyed, down the stairs, lured by instinct
and the Sirens' call.

The Sirens lured me with "Pop Goes the Weasel"; it was the Ice Cream Man.

Having the benefits of longer legs and my own source of income, I easily
outran the other children who had to endure the intolerably infinite wait
for their mothers to retrieve quarters from their purses. I stood in
front of the white truck and gazed slack-jawed at the colorful menu
pasted on the side. Choco Tacos. Fudgcicles. Ice Cream Sandwiches of
various exotic types.

I made my way home with my booty, and discovered how little I actually
like this stuff. As far as ice cream goes, it's all pretty low quality.
Still, it was the principal of the matter; of all the things I grew out
of, willingly or otherwise, chasing down the Ice Cream Man is a childhood
activity that just seems entirely natural at 22. It will probably seem so
at 62, as well.

--ryan.