I realize that my position is likelier to be more sentimental than rational, but it is a risk I'm willing to take. Our local elected officials are pondering the weighty issue of whether or not to lift the 40 year old ban on ice cream trucks. The ban grew out of the tragic death of a girl who was struck by a car when she stepped out into the street after making a purchase from such a truck. I can understand the parents' ongoing grief, and the father's stated intention to mount a campaign against lifting the ban should he sense any wavering on City Council members' part. I can also understand the opposition of Dairy Queen owners who conveniently point out that ice cream is not in short supply.
But I also use to drive an ice cream truck from the time I was 15 years of age until I went to college. It was an entrepreneurial expression my brother and I launched as a self-employed summer job. To be sure, it wasn't one of these large panel trucks that roam the streets in other cities these days. Ours was a three-wheeled Cushman with a red and white striped canvas canopy, outfitted with a freezer compartment -- a kind of golf cart on steroids -- whose top speed was 25 mph -- downhill. We were no stranger to regulations -- music boxes were prohibited, as were any bells larger than 4 inches in diameter. There were inspections to undergo, permits to secure and insurance to buy.
When it was time to make a sale we didn't pass a popsicle through a window, we stepped out of the driver's seat and went around back to the freezer. I suppose kids could have been blindsided by a car as they walked away from us now transfixed by their bomb pop, but we were there in the midst of them keeping watch. And we became part of the neighborhoods we traveled. I can't say we learned every kid's name, but we came to recognize them and know to which house they belonged and whose parent disapproved of morning snacks and which ones knew our names. Rather than intruders, I like to think we became part of the fabric of life in those areas who, if anything, contributed to the safety of those streets rather than detracting from it. Ours were an extra pair of eyes who came to notice things out of place and different people moving about.
Locally, there are other concerns beyond the father's ongoing grief and Dairy Queen's self-interest. Some critics fear the employment of child molesters or the sale of unsafe products, but it all strikes me as excessive insecurity. Hyper-energized overprotectionism. While no one can guarantee an accident free business -- people have even been known to fall on the ice at church -- the other "dangers" are easy enough to prevent. When will we remember that life isn't a movie that we can watch from the comfort of our living rooms with all the offensive parts edited out?
My real concern is that the vendors will find no business. I don't see many kids playing outside where they might notice a passing truck, and from the looks of our waistlines, the Dairy Queen people speak the truth: sweets are not in short supply. All the potential customers are deep within their hermetically sealed houses, one hand on the computer mouse or joystick, the other alternating between a candy bar and jug of pop. Something as quaint as a fudgesicle, outside in the heat of a summer day doesn't stand a chance.
But I also use to drive an ice cream truck from the time I was 15 years of age until I went to college. It was an entrepreneurial expression my brother and I launched as a self-employed summer job. To be sure, it wasn't one of these large panel trucks that roam the streets in other cities these days. Ours was a three-wheeled Cushman with a red and white striped canvas canopy, outfitted with a freezer compartment -- a kind of golf cart on steroids -- whose top speed was 25 mph -- downhill. We were no stranger to regulations -- music boxes were prohibited, as were any bells larger than 4 inches in diameter. There were inspections to undergo, permits to secure and insurance to buy.
When it was time to make a sale we didn't pass a popsicle through a window, we stepped out of the driver's seat and went around back to the freezer. I suppose kids could have been blindsided by a car as they walked away from us now transfixed by their bomb pop, but we were there in the midst of them keeping watch. And we became part of the neighborhoods we traveled. I can't say we learned every kid's name, but we came to recognize them and know to which house they belonged and whose parent disapproved of morning snacks and which ones knew our names. Rather than intruders, I like to think we became part of the fabric of life in those areas who, if anything, contributed to the safety of those streets rather than detracting from it. Ours were an extra pair of eyes who came to notice things out of place and different people moving about.
Locally, there are other concerns beyond the father's ongoing grief and Dairy Queen's self-interest. Some critics fear the employment of child molesters or the sale of unsafe products, but it all strikes me as excessive insecurity. Hyper-energized overprotectionism. While no one can guarantee an accident free business -- people have even been known to fall on the ice at church -- the other "dangers" are easy enough to prevent. When will we remember that life isn't a movie that we can watch from the comfort of our living rooms with all the offensive parts edited out?
My real concern is that the vendors will find no business. I don't see many kids playing outside where they might notice a passing truck, and from the looks of our waistlines, the Dairy Queen people speak the truth: sweets are not in short supply. All the potential customers are deep within their hermetically sealed houses, one hand on the computer mouse or joystick, the other alternating between a candy bar and jug of pop. Something as quaint as a fudgesicle, outside in the heat of a summer day doesn't stand a chance.
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1 comment:
Tim,
There's a really interesting book titled, "Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community", that you might enjoy reading. It's about the decline of social networks in America. BTW, I loved your sermon Sunday. In addition to making me think about second chances, it made me remember playing outside until dark, making walkie/talkies out of wooden blocks, and catching fireflies in glass jars. When did we get so afraid of life?
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