The Snowball Man

No air conditioning when I was a kid. We'd spend many summer hours outside in the sun and heat. So when the snowball man would be heard clanging his little bell while walking and pushing his cart down our dirt road, we'd go crazy with anticipation. We never knew his name; he was old and skinny and had bad teeth. Give him a nickel or quarter, name your choice of "poison" (from among the bright red, purple, orange, yellow, green bottles of juice flavoring lined up in his cart), and watch him begin shaving the giant chunk of ice to make your snowball. But he wasn't friendly, and a couple times he tried to cheat my older brother and me with our change. One day, Mike had enough. After snowball man gave Mike his snowcone, and turned his back to begin shaving another one, Mike suddenly dumped his snowcone down the back of the old man's pants. Not wanting to leave his precious cart unattended while jumping around trying to clear his pants, the man simply began push-running away with it while yelping from his unattended cold bottom. The snowball man never came down our street again. Mike liked grape, I liked cherry.

-Old Doc