You could already hear the tinkle before the truck rounded
the corner, came up the hill and parked itself –oh joy!—right in our driveway.
We—that would include Zachary, Aaron, Ilana and Toby—and any
other neighborhood kids whose parents were as permissive—would actually jump up
and down just like in commercials as we fished out our money and made up our
minds.
Zachary, 8, would get a King Cone. Ilana, 3, ices, always
ices. Aaron, almost 3, would get something Mommy picked out for him—usually an
ice cream sandwich with three flavors inside. When baby Toby was still baby
Toby she sucked on whatever Sruli got, which, of course, was ices, always ices,
too. I, ever on a diet, got a Frozefruit, which, let’s face it, if you get the
coconut, which of course was my favorite, was insanely fattening.
We had been happily waiting for close to an hour in the
driveway; Sruli and I playing
music for all the kids, telling jokes, planning what we were gonna get “this time.”
We did this twice a week, in season, for the better part of
10 years. Ice cream night was a big deal.
Bill-the-ice-cream-man was white haired and smiley. And
patient. He kind of matched his truck.
(He was always in Good Humor.)
And apparently he had been watching us too.
We had already moved out of the neighborhood a good 5 years when we saw him
a few months ago at the old park—big hellos.
He asked me for my number. “I’ve known Zach now for many
years, I watched him grow up,” he said. This was true. “I always saw how he
took care of his brother and bought him and other children ice cream with his
own money when you weren’t there.” This was also true. “I have a nice girl for
him.”
Really?
“My wife and I want to have you all for dinner. Her family
too. Are there any dietary restrictions?”
Wait. Won’t they just be serving ice cream?
So today we all went. Really. Because, IF she turned out to
be the ONE for Zachary, how freakin’cool would that be—to be set up by your ice
cream man? Already I was planning a milchig wedding brunch so we could park a
you-know-what right inside our synagogue’s social hall—Candy Center Crunches
for everyone! Ices for Ilana and
Sruli!
Well, Bill and the lovely Joan do NOT live in a truck. Of
course I knew this, but I was a tad disappointed. So was Zachary I think.
The girl and her family were lovely, but she was not for
Zachary, and maybe we all were a tad disappointed. I think.
But then—it got weirder. As I started to talk to the Dad, and he began with the usual
where do you live, etc., I said, “Well we lived in Englewood for a while until
Sruli became the Rabbi of this CRAAAAAZY synagogue in North Bergen” and he
shouted “Temple BETH EL?” and I shouted “YES!” and he said “I’m the president
of the synagogue right up the hill from you!”
The synagogue that had been trying and trying to merge with
us before Sruli came on board but our little band of congregants wouldn’t hear
of it.
All together we were, this afternoon, at the house of Bill
the ice-cream-man.
So he didn’t make the shidduch with Zachary and the girl,
but he did get the parents together—we had LOTS to talk about and are planning—not
to merge, ha ha!-- but to get together.
He really did something nice, that Bill. As did Joan.
Something that people always say they’re gonna do, think they’re gonna do,
really think they’re gonna do. One day.
Today, he went to a lot of trouble to set up a nice Jewish
girl—from Barnard, yet!—with a nice Jewish boy he used to see out his window,
summer after summer after summer.
Maybe, as the old joke goes, they were the only 2 Jewish
people he knew.
Still.
After an elaborate lunch with plenty of wine, Joan went out
of the room and came back with a big cardboard box.
Zachary had a King Cone. I had a Candy Center Crunch. (One
of the biggest sellers, Bill told me.) Aaron was not there, but Johnny had an
ice cream sandwich. Ilana was not there, but Charlie and Daddy had ices. Always
ices.
