As the warmer weather settles in, a new element has appeared in our neighborhood sound-scape, the "music truck".
The ice cream truck is a near-constant presence in our neighborhood for eight-or-so months out of the year. When Louise was younger, we—not wanting to be burdened with endless entreaties for treats—engaged in a little parental disinformation*: "It's a 'music truck'. It travels around giving out music to make everyone happy." Louise seemed to think this was quite reasonable.
But one day, not long after our dear Ana had been babysitting, the truck rolled by. Louise exuberantly announced "Mommy, Daddy, guess what! Ana says they have ice cream in those trucks!"
Damn you, Ana. The gig was up. (Though perhaps it was nothing a bit character-assassination couldn't remedy: "Ana is cray-zee. Don't believe anything she says…")
Now, as a disillusioned, world-weary five-and-a-half-year-old, Louise is fully aware of the vehicle's true nature, but she persists in calling it the "music truck", which I like. And I like having it back in the neighborhood. Eternal off-key mechanical renditions of "Turkey in the Straw" never sounded so good.
* Do not judge me until you have walked a mile in my whine-enduring shoes.