I love the smell of shiny black tar on a hot summer road. Why? I know it's a noxious, industrial, dirty smell. The sense of smell is so primitive, so closely seated by the center of emotional memories. A whiff of that sweaty, burning, sticky goo yanks me IMMEDIATELY to 4 years old, and a fudgesicle. True.
For a very short time- a year, maybe- my family lived in the city. My older sister walked to kindergarten. I believe this may have been the house that my newborn younger sister came home to- if Katie was in kindergarten, that would put me around 4 years old, which means Shelley was born that year. The neighborhood had packs of kids- one family had a British mom and the kids were called in every day to TEA.
Anyhoo, fudgesicles were a dime, and one day, the ice cream truck came tinkling through our block, and Katie and I got to buy something.
The road must have been melting that day, or the patching crew had been through. Bam- a sensory match made in heaven, and permanently imprinted in my then-vast memory bank.
3 comments:
My favorites were either the banana popsicles or the bomb pops--the ones that were red, white and blue. Yum.
Oh come ON. Stop with the sales talk on the blog. Or at least make an effort to be gramatically correct.
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