It was about 1200º F in Boston last Sunday. And it was Dorchester Day which I suppose is a big deal fun day if you live in Dorchester, but if you live in Medford and have to go to Milton it's not so much fun as, well, whatever the word is for something that makes what should be a 15-minute drive into an hour-long drive, it's that.
It had been a busy weekend, and by 7:00 p.m.Sunday we had all just about had it. The garden was turned, mulched and planted. Deck furniture was scrubbed. Firewood was moved. Empty propane tanks were lugged to BJs, filled and lugged home. Dinner was made and served and cleaned up after. Even if there was no dessert.
Then at 7, I heard it for the first time this year -- the ice cream truck. Parked right in front of our neighbors' house. So I call to the boys - "Hey 96, 98! Come with me and we'll get something from the ice cream truck." Which, itself, is something I probably haven't said since about 2005.
96 hollers down in response, "Can't, mom, I'm studying."
98 hollers up from the cellar "No thanks, mom, I'm doing laundry."
It's the ice cream truck, for Pete's sake! What kind of children am I raising?!
