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Oficial de policía fuera de servicio se vuelve loco por el cierre de la tienda de chocolate Godiva

Oficial de policía fuera de servicio se vuelve loco por el cierre de la tienda de chocolate Godiva


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El oficial fue arrestado y suspendido sin paga

code6d / istockphoto.com

Un fuera de servicio Policía de Nueva York El oficial ha sido suspendido después de hacer una rabieta en un Godiva chocolatería cuando los empleados le dijeron que iban a cerrar. El arrebato grabado en video, subido por un afiliado local de ABC, muestra a Amanda Villafane, de 30 años, desfilando y gritando agresivamente dentro de la tienda en Stamford, Connecticut.

En un ataque de rabia, Villafane supuestamente utilizó malas palabras y amenazó con golpear a alguien. Cuando su pareja, Christopher Salvadore, se dio cuenta de que se estaba grabando la escena, supuestamente le dio un puñetazo al joven de 18 años que estaba filmando el incidente.

“Estábamos uno encima del otro luchando. Estaba tratando de romperlo, y él empujó a todos ”, dijo Max Alba a ABC 7.“ El tipo lo cortó con un buen puñetazo al final de la pelea. Sus ojos comenzaron a sangrar, su cabeza comenzó a sangrar por toda su nariz ".

Cuando la policía llegó a la escena, Villafane presentó su placa de policía de Nueva York y luchó con un policía.

"Cuando fueron a arrestarla, ella no quiso cooperar, así que tuvieron que llevarla al suelo y esposarla", dijo el sargento de policía de Stamford, Brian Butler. le dijo al New York Post, y agregó que el piso estaba cubierto de "sangre y chocolate".

Villafane fue acusado de allanamiento de morada, conducta desordenada e interferir con la policía. Salvador fue acusado de agresión y alteración del orden público. The Daily Meal ha recibido la confirmación de que la policía de Nueva York ha suspendido a Villafane sin paga.

Para más fechorías extrañas, consulte el 10 arrestos por borracho más divertidos en los EE. UU..


UDF, paletas heladas y & # 8220 políticamente incorrectas & # 8221 helados

En Cincinnati, en la década de 1950, había pocos lugares que fueran tolerablemente frescos en junio, julio y agosto. Allí estaban las salas de cine en interiores, todas con calcomanías de pingüinos en las puertas de entrada con la leyenda: "¡Vamos, está COOL adentro!" Estaba la casa de hielo abandonada al lado de la Biblioteca Pública de Westwood, y el otro lado de la ciudad donde los residentes eran lo suficientemente ricos como para tener aire acondicionado.

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas.

Pagar por una película solo para disfrutar de la temperatura habría sido visto como una frivolidad. Los padres nos disuadieron de visitar la fresca oscuridad de la casa de hielo. ("¿Quién sabe quién podría estar escondido allí?"), Y pocos de nosotros teníamos la conectividad social para ser invitados a la casa de un niño rico para disfrutar del aire a 70 grados, libre de humedad y alérgenos. Esto nos dejó en una búsqueda constante de actividades refrescantes, especialmente al anochecer, cuando el cielo parecía volverse del revés y descargar el resto del calor del día sobre nuestras cabezas ya sudorosas.

La diversión de verano en la familia Lockard generalmente incluía cerveza, helado y / o pistolas de perdigones. (Mi papá se sentaba en el patio trasero con un Michelob y tomaba fotos en una caja de cartón). Aunque a los niños siempre se les permitía un generoso sorbo de la cerveza de alguien, nuestras noches de verano "PG" se centraban en los helados y el destino favorito era el local United Dairy Farmers, o "UDF".

Por alguna extraña razón, todavía recuerdo los precios que se publicaron detrás del mostrador esterilizado en "The Dairy Farmers", como lo llamaba mi madre. Un cono de una inmersión costaba 7 centavos dos salsas, 10 centavos y una malta de chocolate, 19 centavos. Mi papá tenía derecho a gastar 26 centavos en un helado de chocolate caliente. El helado fue un gran placer, pero el drama que lo acompañó fue aún mejor.

Aparcamos nuestro Chevy del 54 en una calle lateral y bajamos hasta UDF. Los drive-thru eran desconocidos en 1955. ¡La calle lateral albergaba algunas tiendas poco interesantes y una fábrica encantada! Lamiendo nuestros conos que goteaban mientras estábamos estacionados al lado del destartalado edificio de madera, escuchábamos, embelesados, mientras mi padre contaba historias de fantasmas. Luego, a mitad de la frase, se detenía y señalaba una de las ventanas rotas de la vieja fábrica. "Ahí, ¿lo viste?" exclamaba. "¿Qué?" mi hermana y yo gritábamos. "Bueno, ya no está, pero había un rostro en esa ventana mirándonos".

El escenario nunca cambió a lo largo de los años. Por mucho que lo intentáramos, Karen y yo nunca pudimos vislumbrar la cara (probablemente la de un trabajador de la línea de montaje descontento y muerto hace mucho tiempo). Mi madre siempre tenía la misma reacción, ponía los ojos en blanco con incredulidad y trabajaba tranquilamente en su plato doble de nueces y mantequilla. A pesar de toda una vida de bodas, funerales, nacimientos, logros, comedias y tragedias, esas noches en el automóvil, saboreando un cono de chispas de chocolate, fueron algunas de las más memorables.

A veces, ¡simplemente TENÍA que tener un helado suave! En esas noches, papá guiaba el Chevy por Montana Hill, hasta Putz's. Hacía al menos 10 grados más frío debido a la caída en la altura y la ventajosa ubicación de Putz en el borde del monte Airy Forest. Cuando era adolescente, montaba mi caballo por el bosque y le compraba un refresco de cerveza de raíz. (Si le molestaba el delicado sistema digestivo de un caballo, ¡nunca lo dejó ver!). Aquí, papá se derrocharía en una banana split mamá, un batido de chocolate y Karen y yo podríamos permitirnos un helado. Sentados en el estacionamiento abarrotado en el capó del auto, estábamos felizmente frescos. Mamá, que monetizaba todo, miraba las líneas de los clientes y comentaba: “Apuesto a que hace una fortuna. ¡Escuché que pasan todo el invierno en Florida! "

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas. "Zip" pesaba 120 libras. y odiaba todo lo que tuviera cuatro patas. Para evitar que rompieran los asientos de nuestro automóvil, mamá insistió en que usara tobilleras blancas, sujetas con bandas de goma. La imagen de un perro que podría haber protagonizado un video de reclutamiento nazi, lamiendo un servicio suave de vainilla mientras usaba tobilleras con puños con volantes se ha grabado permanentemente en mi cerebro.

El Uber come helado

A fines de la década de 1950, alguien tuvo la idea emprendedora de traerle helado y renunciar a los gastos de un edificio, estacionamiento y terreno adicional para estacionamiento desbordado. Los camiones de Mister Softee comenzaron a vagar por nuestro vecindario, provocando una respuesta pavloviana entre cualquier menor de 12 años. Solo escuchar el “tintineo” del camión blanco mientras rodaba por tu calle, resultó en salivar y chillar, “¡Mamá! ¿Puedo comer algo de mon-eee?

Mi mamá odiaba al señor Softee. El camión no solo apareció en horas aleatorias, como a la hora de la cena o las 11:30 p.m., despertándonos a todos de un sueño profundo, sino que Mister Softee era caro. Mamá nos entregaba un dólar a regañadientes y anhelaba la opción de un cono UDF de 10 centavos. "No sé dónde se salen con la suya cobrando tanto", decía, y siempre añadía: "¡Esta es la ÚLTIMA vez que les doy dinero a sus hijos!" Honestamente, probablemente financió algunas franquicias de Mister Softee, especialmente cuando papá estaba en casa y quería una malta de chocolate extra grande.

Hablando de Pavlov, el familiar "ding-ding" llevó a Zip a un frenesí alimenticio. Ese perro podría tragar un cono de $ 2 en tres segundos. Entonces, una noche cuando mi hermana me estaba cuidando, recordó que había prometido llevar a Zip a dar un paseo. A las 10:30 de una húmeda noche de viernes, se colgó la correa y comenzó a dar la vuelta a la cuadra. Todo estuvo bien durante los primeros cinco minutos, cuando, acercándose por la parte trasera, llegó el señor Softee, haciendo un tintineo como un loco y acelerando a 30 mph. El conductor, que probablemente se dirigía a casa, no tenía intención de detenerse. Pasó volando a Zip y Karen justo cuando nuestro perro se preparaba para la persecución.

Mi hermana finalmente regresó a casa con las rodillas ensangrentadas, las manos llenas de ampollas y una mirada aturdida en sus ojos. Ella contó una espeluznante historia de ser arrastrada por cuadras detrás del Perro del Infierno en busca de un gran plato de chocolate y vainilla. Afortunadamente, no llevaba sus tobilleras blancas. ¡Habrían sido triturados!

Otras tardes nos encontraron a nosotros y a 35 de nuestros amigos íntimos del vecindario atrapando bichos relámpagos o jugando a las estatuas oscilantes en el césped irregular de alguien. Tal vez la “Dama de la Casa” apareciera en el porche, ofreciendo un par de cajas de Empanadas Esquimales, que ahora se conocerían como Empanadas de los “Pueblos Indígenas”. Algunas noches, podría ser una hermana mayor con una jarra de Kool-Aid o una abuela con paletas de naranja. Refrescarse en los años 50 era tanto un evento social como un acontecimiento gastronómico.

Ahora vivo en el noroeste de Ohio un poco más fresco y no tan húmedo. Anoche, sin embargo, la temperatura todavía estaba en los 80 grados a las 9 pm. Mientras llevaba a mi laboratorio a dar un paseo antes de dormir, juro que escuché un "ding-ding". Tybee aguzó las orejas y yo sujeté con más fuerza su correa. ¡Que comience la persecución por Memory Lane!


UDF, paletas heladas y & # 8220 políticamente incorrectas & # 8221 helados

En Cincinnati, en la década de 1950, había pocos lugares que fueran tolerablemente frescos en junio, julio y agosto. Allí estaban las salas de cine en interiores, todas con calcomanías de pingüinos en las puertas de entrada con la leyenda: "¡Vamos, está COOL adentro!" Estaba la casa de hielo abandonada junto a la biblioteca pública de Westwood y el otro lado de la ciudad donde los residentes eran lo suficientemente ricos como para tener aire acondicionado.

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas.

Pagar por una película solo para disfrutar de la temperatura se habría considerado una frivolidad. Los padres nos disuadieron de visitar la fresca oscuridad de la casa de hielo. ("¿Quién sabe quién podría estar escondido allí?"), Y pocos de nosotros teníamos la conectividad social para ser invitados a la casa de un niño rico para disfrutar del aire a 70 grados, libre de humedad y alérgenos. Esto nos dejó en una búsqueda constante de actividades refrescantes, especialmente al anochecer, cuando el cielo parecía volverse del revés y descargar el resto del calor del día sobre nuestras cabezas ya sudorosas.

La diversión de verano en la familia Lockard generalmente incluía cerveza, helado y / o pistolas de perdigones. (Mi papá se sentaba en el patio trasero con un Michelob y tomaba fotos en una caja de cartón). Aunque a los niños siempre se les permitía un generoso sorbo de la cerveza de alguien, nuestras noches de verano "PG" se centraban en los helados y el destino favorito era el local United Dairy Farmers, o "UDF".

Por alguna extraña razón, todavía recuerdo los precios que se publicaron detrás del mostrador esterilizado en "The Dairy Farmers", como lo llamaba mi madre. Un cono de una inmersión costaba 7 centavos dos salsas, 10 centavos y una malta de chocolate, 19 centavos. Mi papá tenía derecho a gastar 26 centavos en un helado de chocolate caliente. El helado fue un gran placer, pero el drama que lo acompañó fue aún mejor.

Aparcamos nuestro Chevy del 54 en una calle lateral y bajamos hasta UDF. Los drive-thru eran desconocidos en 1955. ¡La calle lateral albergaba algunas tiendas poco interesantes y una fábrica encantada! Lamiendo nuestros conos que goteaban mientras estábamos estacionados al lado del destartalado edificio de madera, escuchábamos, embelesados, mientras mi padre contaba historias de fantasmas. Luego, a mitad de la frase, se detenía y señalaba una de las ventanas rotas de la vieja fábrica. "Ahí, ¿lo viste?" exclamaba. "¿Qué?" mi hermana y yo gritábamos. "Bueno, ya no está, pero había un rostro en esa ventana mirándonos".

El escenario nunca cambió a lo largo de los años. Por mucho que lo intentáramos, Karen y yo nunca pudimos vislumbrar la cara (probablemente la de un trabajador de la línea de montaje descontento y muerto hace mucho tiempo). Mi madre siempre tenía la misma reacción, ponía los ojos en blanco con incredulidad y trabajaba tranquilamente en su plato doble de nueces y mantequilla. A pesar de toda una vida de bodas, funerales, nacimientos, logros, comedias y tragedias, esas noches en el automóvil, saboreando un cono de chispas de chocolate, fueron algunas de las más memorables.

A veces, ¡simplemente TENÍA que tener un helado suave! En esas noches, papá guiaba el Chevy por Montana Hill, hasta Putz's. Hacía al menos 10 grados más frío debido a la caída en la altura y la ventajosa ubicación de Putz en la frontera del monte Airy Forest. Cuando era adolescente, montaba mi caballo por el bosque y le compraba un refresco de cerveza de raíz. (Si le molestaba el delicado sistema digestivo de un caballo, ¡nunca lo dejó ver!). Aquí, papá se derrocharía en una banana split mamá, un batido de chocolate y Karen y yo podríamos permitirnos un helado. Sentados en el estacionamiento abarrotado en el capó del auto, estábamos felizmente frescos. Mamá, que monetizaba todo, miraba las líneas de los clientes y comentaba: “Apuesto a que hace una fortuna. ¡Escuché que pasan todo el invierno en Florida! "

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas. "Zip" pesaba 120 libras. y odiaba todo lo que tuviera cuatro patas. Para evitar que rompieran los asientos de nuestro automóvil, mamá insistió en que usara tobilleras blancas, sujetas con bandas de goma. La imagen de un perro que podría haber protagonizado un video de reclutamiento nazi, lamiendo un servicio suave de vainilla mientras usaba tobilleras con puños con volantes se ha grabado permanentemente en mi cerebro.

El Uber come helado

A fines de la década de 1950, alguien tuvo la idea emprendedora de traerle helado y renunciar a los gastos de un edificio, estacionamiento y terreno adicional para estacionamiento desbordado. Los camiones de Mister Softee comenzaron a vagar por nuestro vecindario, provocando una respuesta pavloviana entre cualquier menor de 12 años. Solo escuchar el “tintineo” del camión blanco mientras rodaba por tu calle, resultó en salivar y chillar, “¡Mamá! ¿Puedo comer algo de mon-eee?

Mi mamá odiaba al señor Softee. El camión no solo apareció en horas aleatorias, como a la hora de la cena o las 11:30 p.m., despertándonos a todos de un sueño profundo, sino que Mister Softee era caro. Mamá nos entregaba un dólar a regañadientes y anhelaba la opción de un cono UDF de 10 centavos. "No sé dónde se salen con la suya cobrando tanto", decía, y siempre añadía: "¡Esta es la ÚLTIMA vez que les doy dinero a sus hijos!" Honestamente, probablemente financió algunas franquicias de Mister Softee, especialmente cuando papá estaba en casa y quería una malta de chocolate extra grande.

Hablando de Pavlov, el familiar "ding-ding" llevó a Zip a un frenesí alimenticio. Ese perro podría tragar un cono de $ 2 en tres segundos. Entonces, una noche cuando mi hermana me estaba cuidando, recordó que había prometido llevar a Zip a dar un paseo. A las 10:30 de una noche húmeda de viernes, se colgó de la correa y comenzó a caminar alrededor de la cuadra. Todo estuvo bien durante los primeros cinco minutos, cuando, acercándose por la parte trasera, llegó el señor Softee, haciendo un tintineo como un loco y acelerando a 30 mph. El conductor, que probablemente se dirigía a casa, no tenía intención de detenerse. Pasó volando a Zip y Karen justo cuando nuestro perro se preparaba para la persecución.

Mi hermana finalmente regresó a casa con las rodillas ensangrentadas, las manos llenas de ampollas y una mirada aturdida en sus ojos. Ella contó una espeluznante historia de ser arrastrada por cuadras detrás del Sabueso del Infierno en busca de un gran plato de chocolate y vainilla. Afortunadamente, no llevaba sus tobilleras blancas. ¡Habrían sido triturados!

Otras tardes nos encontraron a nosotros y a 35 de nuestros amigos íntimos del vecindario atrapando bichos relámpagos o jugando a las estatuas oscilantes en el césped irregular de alguien. Tal vez la “Dama de la Casa” apareciera en el porche, ofreciendo un par de cajas de empanadas esquimales, que ahora se conocerían como empanadas de “pueblos indígenas”. Algunas noches, podría ser una hermana mayor con una jarra de Kool-Aid o una abuela con paletas de naranja. Refrescarse en los años 50 era tanto un evento social como un acontecimiento gastronómico.

Ahora vivo en el noroeste de Ohio un poco más fresco y no tan húmedo. Anoche, sin embargo, la temperatura todavía estaba en los 80 grados a las 9 pm. Mientras llevaba a mi laboratorio a dar un paseo antes de dormir, juro que escuché un "ding-ding". Tybee aguzó las orejas y sujeté con más fuerza su correa. ¡Que comience la persecución por Memory Lane!


UDF, paletas heladas y & # 8220 políticamente incorrectas & # 8221 helados

En Cincinnati en la década de 1950, había pocos lugares que fueran tolerablemente frescos en junio, julio y agosto. Allí estaban las salas de cine en interiores, todas con calcomanías de pingüinos en las puertas de entrada con la leyenda: "¡Vamos, está COOL adentro!" Estaba la casa de hielo abandonada al lado de la Biblioteca Pública de Westwood, y el otro lado de la ciudad donde los residentes eran lo suficientemente ricos como para tener aire acondicionado.

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas.

Pagar por una película solo para disfrutar de la temperatura se habría considerado una frivolidad. Los padres nos disuadieron de visitar la fresca oscuridad de la casa de hielo. ("¿Quién sabe quién podría estar escondido allí?"), Y pocos de nosotros teníamos la conectividad social para ser invitados a la casa de un niño rico para disfrutar del aire a 70 grados, libre de humedad y alérgenos. Esto nos dejó en una búsqueda constante de actividades refrescantes, especialmente al anochecer, cuando el cielo parecía volverse del revés y descargar el resto del calor del día sobre nuestras cabezas ya sudorosas.

La diversión de verano en la familia Lockard generalmente incluía cerveza, helado y / o pistolas de perdigones. (Mi papá se sentaba en el patio trasero con un Michelob y tomaba fotos en una caja de cartón). Aunque a los niños siempre se les permitía un generoso sorbo de la cerveza de alguien, nuestras noches de verano "PG" se centraban en los helados y el destino favorito era el local United Dairy Farmers, o "UDF".

Por alguna extraña razón, todavía recuerdo los precios que se publicaron detrás del mostrador esterilizado en "The Dairy Farmers", como lo llamaba mi madre. Un cono de una inmersión costaba 7 centavos dos salsas, 10 centavos y una malta de chocolate, 19 centavos. Mi papá tenía derecho a gastar 26 centavos en un helado de chocolate caliente. El helado fue un gran placer, pero el drama que lo acompañó fue aún mejor.

Aparcamos nuestro Chevy del 54 en una calle lateral y bajamos hasta UDF. Los drive-thru eran desconocidos en 1955. ¡La calle lateral albergaba algunas tiendas poco interesantes y una fábrica encantada! Lamiendo nuestros conos que goteaban mientras estábamos estacionados al lado del destartalado edificio de madera, escuchábamos, embelesados, mientras mi padre contaba historias de fantasmas. Luego, a mitad de la frase, se detenía y señalaba una de las ventanas rotas de la vieja fábrica. "Ahí, ¿lo viste?" exclamaba. "¿Qué?" mi hermana y yo gritábamos. "Bueno, ya no está, pero había un rostro en esa ventana mirándonos".

El escenario nunca cambió a lo largo de los años. Por mucho que lo intentáramos, Karen y yo nunca pudimos vislumbrar la cara (probablemente la de un trabajador de la línea de montaje descontento y muerto hace mucho tiempo). Mi madre siempre tenía la misma reacción, ponía los ojos en blanco con incredulidad y trabajaba tranquilamente en su plato doble de nueces y mantequilla. A pesar de toda una vida de bodas, funerales, nacimientos, logros, comedias y tragedias, esas noches en el automóvil, saboreando un cono de chispas de chocolate, fueron algunas de las más memorables.

A veces, ¡simplemente TENÍA que tener un helado suave! En esas noches, papá guiaba el Chevy por Montana Hill, hasta Putz's. Hacía al menos 10 grados más frío debido a la caída en la altura y la ventajosa ubicación de Putz en la frontera del monte Airy Forest. Cuando era adolescente, montaba mi caballo por el bosque y le compraba un refresco de cerveza de raíz. (Si le molestaba el delicado sistema digestivo de un caballo, ¡nunca lo dejó ver!). Aquí, papá se derrocharía en una banana split mamá, un batido de chocolate y Karen y yo podríamos permitirnos un helado. Sentados en el estacionamiento abarrotado en el capó del auto, estábamos felizmente frescos. Mamá, que monetizaba todo, miraba las líneas de los clientes y comentaba: “Apuesto a que hace una fortuna. ¡Escuché que pasan todo el invierno en Florida! "

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas. "Zip" pesaba 120 libras. y odiaba todo lo que tuviera cuatro patas. Para evitar que rompieran los asientos de nuestro automóvil, mamá insistió en que usara tobilleras blancas, sujetas con bandas de goma. La imagen de un perro que podría haber protagonizado un video de reclutamiento nazi, lamiendo un servicio suave de vainilla mientras usaba tobilleras con puños con volantes se ha grabado permanentemente en mi cerebro.

El Uber come helado

A fines de la década de 1950, alguien tuvo la idea emprendedora de traerle helado y renunciar a los gastos de un edificio, estacionamiento y terreno adicional para estacionamiento desbordado. Los camiones de Mister Softee comenzaron a vagar por nuestro vecindario, provocando una respuesta pavloviana entre cualquier menor de 12 años. Solo escuchar el “tintineo” del camión blanco mientras rodaba por tu calle, resultó en salivar y chillar: “¡Mamá! ¿Puedo comer algo de mon-eee?

Mi mamá odiaba al señor Softee. El camión no solo apareció en horas aleatorias, como a la hora de la cena o las 11:30 p.m., despertándonos a todos de un sueño profundo, sino que Mister Softee era caro. Mamá nos entregaba un dólar a regañadientes y anhelaba la opción de un cono UDF de 10 centavos. "No sé dónde se salen con la suya cobrando tanto", decía, y siempre añadía: "¡Esta es la ÚLTIMA vez que les doy dinero a sus hijos!" Honestamente, probablemente financió algunas franquicias de Mister Softee, especialmente cuando papá estaba en casa y quería una malta de chocolate extra grande.

Hablando de Pavlov, el familiar "ding-ding" llevó a Zip a un frenesí alimenticio. Ese perro podría tragar un cono de $ 2 en tres segundos. Entonces, una noche cuando mi hermana me estaba cuidando, recordó que había prometido llevar a Zip a dar un paseo. A las 10:30 de una noche húmeda de viernes, se colgó de la correa y comenzó a caminar alrededor de la cuadra. Todo estuvo bien durante los primeros cinco minutos, cuando, acercándose por la parte trasera, llegó el señor Softee, haciendo un tintineo como un loco y acelerando a 30 mph. El conductor, que probablemente se dirigía a casa, no tenía intención de detenerse. Pasó volando a Zip y Karen justo cuando nuestro perro se preparaba para la persecución.

Mi hermana finalmente regresó a casa con las rodillas ensangrentadas, las manos llenas de ampollas y una mirada aturdida en sus ojos. Ella contó una espeluznante historia de ser arrastrada por cuadras detrás del Sabueso del Infierno en busca de un gran plato de chocolate y vainilla. Afortunadamente, no llevaba sus tobilleras blancas. ¡Habrían sido triturados!

Otras noches nos encontraron a nosotros y a 35 de nuestros amigos íntimos del vecindario atrapando bichos relámpagos o jugando a las estatuas oscilantes en el césped irregular de alguien. Tal vez la “Dama de la Casa” apareciera en el porche, ofreciendo un par de cajas de empanadas esquimales, que ahora se conocerían como empanadas de “pueblos indígenas”. Algunas noches, podría ser una hermana mayor con una jarra de Kool-Aid o una abuela con paletas de naranja. Refrescarse en los años 50 era tanto un evento social como un acontecimiento gastronómico.

Ahora vivo en el noroeste de Ohio un poco más fresco y no tan húmedo. Anoche, sin embargo, la temperatura todavía estaba en los 80 grados a las 9 pm. Mientras llevaba a mi laboratorio a dar un paseo antes de dormir, juro que escuché un "ding-ding". Tybee aguzó las orejas y sujeté con más fuerza su correa. ¡Que comience la persecución por Memory Lane!


UDF, paletas heladas y & # 8220 políticamente incorrectas & # 8221 helados

En Cincinnati en la década de 1950, había pocos lugares que fueran tolerablemente frescos en junio, julio y agosto. Allí estaban las salas de cine en interiores, todas con calcomanías de pingüinos en las puertas de entrada con la leyenda: "¡Vamos, está COOL adentro!" Estaba la casa de hielo abandonada al lado de la Biblioteca Pública de Westwood, y el otro lado de la ciudad donde los residentes eran lo suficientemente ricos como para tener aire acondicionado.

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas.

Pagar por una película solo para disfrutar de la temperatura se habría considerado una frivolidad. Los padres nos disuadieron de visitar la fresca oscuridad de la casa de hielo. ("¿Quién sabe quién podría estar escondido allí?"), Y pocos de nosotros teníamos la conectividad social para ser invitados a la casa de un niño rico para disfrutar del aire a 70 grados, libre de humedad y alérgenos. Esto nos dejó en una búsqueda constante de actividades refrescantes, especialmente al anochecer, cuando el cielo parecía volverse del revés y descargar el resto del calor del día sobre nuestras cabezas ya sudorosas.

La diversión de verano en la familia Lockard generalmente incluía cerveza, helado y / o pistolas de perdigones. (Mi papá se sentaba en el patio trasero con un Michelob y tomaba fotos en una caja de cartón). Aunque a los niños siempre se les permitía un generoso sorbo de la cerveza de alguien, nuestras noches de verano "PG" se centraban en los helados y el destino favorito era el local United Dairy Farmers, o "UDF".

Por alguna extraña razón, todavía recuerdo los precios que se publicaron detrás del mostrador esterilizado en "The Dairy Farmers", como lo llamaba mi madre. Un cono de una inmersión costaba 7 centavos dos salsas, 10 centavos y una malta de chocolate, 19 centavos. Mi papá tenía derecho a gastar 26 centavos en un helado de chocolate caliente. El helado fue un gran placer, pero el drama que lo acompañó fue aún mejor.

Aparcamos nuestro Chevy del 54 en una calle lateral y bajamos hasta UDF. Los drive-thru eran desconocidos en 1955. ¡La calle lateral albergaba algunas tiendas poco interesantes y una fábrica encantada! Lamiendo nuestros conos que goteaban mientras estábamos estacionados junto al destartalado edificio de madera, escuchábamos, embelesados, mientras mi padre contaba historias de fantasmas. Luego, a mitad de la frase, se detenía y señalaba una de las ventanas rotas de la vieja fábrica. "Ahí, ¿lo viste?" exclamaba. "¿Qué?" mi hermana y yo gritábamos. "Bueno, ya no está, pero había un rostro en esa ventana mirándonos".

El escenario nunca cambió a lo largo de los años. Por mucho que lo intentáramos, Karen y yo nunca pudimos vislumbrar la cara (probablemente la de un trabajador de una línea de montaje descontento y muerto hace mucho tiempo). Mi madre siempre tenía la misma reacción, ponía los ojos en blanco con incredulidad y trabajaba tranquilamente en su plato doble de nueces y mantequilla. A pesar de toda una vida de bodas, funerales, nacimientos, logros, comedias y tragedias, esas noches en el automóvil, saboreando un cono de chispas de chocolate, fueron algunas de las más memorables.

A veces, ¡simplemente TENÍA que tener un helado suave! En esas noches, papá guiaba el Chevy por Montana Hill, hasta Putz's. Hacía al menos 10 grados más frío debido a la caída en la altura y la ventajosa ubicación de Putz en el borde del monte Airy Forest. Cuando era adolescente, montaba mi caballo por el bosque y le compraba un refresco de cerveza de raíz. (Si le molestaba el delicado sistema digestivo de un caballo, ¡nunca lo dejó ver!). Aquí, papá se derrocharía en una banana split mamá, un batido de chocolate y Karen y yo podríamos permitirnos un helado. Sentados en el estacionamiento abarrotado en el capó del auto, estábamos felizmente frescos. Mamá, que monetizaba todo, miraba las líneas de los clientes y comentaba: “Apuesto a que hace una fortuna. ¡Escuché que pasan todo el invierno en Florida! "

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas. "Zip" pesaba 120 libras. y odiaba todo lo que tuviera cuatro patas. Para evitar que rompieran los asientos de nuestro automóvil, mamá insistió en que usara tobilleras blancas, sujetas con bandas de goma. La imagen de un perro que podría haber protagonizado un video de reclutamiento nazi, lamiendo un servicio suave de vainilla mientras usaba tobilleras con puños con volantes se ha grabado permanentemente en mi cerebro.

El Uber come helado

A fines de la década de 1950, alguien tuvo la idea emprendedora de traerle helado y renunciar a los gastos de un edificio, estacionamiento y terreno adicional para estacionamiento desbordado. Los camiones del señor Softee comenzaron a vagar por nuestro vecindario, provocando una respuesta pavloviana entre cualquier menor de 12 años. Solo escuchar el “tintineo” del camión blanco mientras rodaba por tu calle, resultó en salivar y chillar: “¡Mamá! ¿Puedo comer algo de mon-eee?

Mi mamá odiaba al señor Softee. El camión no solo apareció en horas aleatorias, como a la hora de la cena o las 11:30 p.m., despertándonos a todos de un sueño profundo, sino que Mister Softee era caro. Mamá nos entregaba un dólar a regañadientes y anhelaba la opción de un cono UDF de 10 centavos. "No sé dónde se salen con la suya cobrando tanto", decía, y siempre añadía: "¡Esta es la ÚLTIMA vez que les doy dinero a sus hijos!" Honestamente, probablemente financió algunas franquicias de Mister Softee, especialmente cuando papá estaba en casa y quería una malta de chocolate extra grande.

Hablando de Pavlov, el familiar "ding-ding" llevó a Zip a un frenesí alimenticio. Ese perro podría tragar un cono de $ 2 en tres segundos. Entonces, una noche cuando mi hermana me estaba cuidando, recordó que había prometido llevar a Zip a dar un paseo. A las 10:30 de una húmeda noche de viernes, se colgó la correa y comenzó a dar la vuelta a la cuadra. Todo fue bien durante los primeros cinco minutos, cuando, acercándose por la parte trasera, llegó el señor Softee, haciendo tintineo como loco y acelerando a 30 mph. El conductor, que probablemente se dirigía a casa, no tenía intención de detenerse. Pasó volando a Zip y Karen justo cuando nuestro perro se preparaba para la persecución.

Mi hermana finalmente regresó a casa con las rodillas ensangrentadas, las manos llenas de ampollas y una mirada aturdida en sus ojos. Ella contó una espeluznante historia de ser arrastrada por cuadras detrás del Sabueso del Infierno en busca de un gran plato de chocolate y vainilla. Afortunadamente, no llevaba sus tobilleras blancas. ¡Habrían sido triturados!

Otras tardes nos encontraron a nosotros y a 35 de nuestros amigos íntimos del vecindario atrapando bichos relámpagos o jugando a las estatuas oscilantes en el césped irregular de alguien. Tal vez la “Dama de la Casa” apareciera en el porche, ofreciendo un par de cajas de Empanadas Esquimales, que ahora se conocerían como Empanadas de los “Pueblos Indígenas”. Algunas noches, podría ser una hermana mayor con una jarra de Kool-Aid o una abuela con paletas de naranja. Refrescarse en los años 50 era tanto un evento social como un acontecimiento gastronómico.

Ahora vivo en el noroeste de Ohio un poco más fresco y no tan húmedo. Anoche, sin embargo, la temperatura todavía estaba en los 80 grados a las 9 pm. Mientras llevaba a mi laboratorio a dar un paseo antes de dormir, juro que escuché un "ding-ding". Tybee aguzó las orejas y sujeté con más fuerza su correa. ¡Que comience la persecución por Memory Lane!


UDF, paletas heladas y & # 8220 políticamente incorrectas & # 8221 helados

En Cincinnati, en la década de 1950, había pocos lugares que fueran tolerablemente frescos en junio, julio y agosto. Allí estaban las salas de cine en interiores, todas con calcomanías de pingüinos en las puertas de entrada con la leyenda: "¡Vamos, está COOL adentro!" Estaba la casa de hielo abandonada junto a la biblioteca pública de Westwood, y el otro lado de la ciudad donde los residentes eran lo suficientemente ricos como para tener aire acondicionado.

De vez en cuando, a nuestro pastor alemán de gran tamaño se le permitía acompañarnos en estas incursiones nocturnas.

Pagar por una película solo para disfrutar de la temperatura se habría considerado una frivolidad. Los padres nos disuadieron de visitar la fresca oscuridad de la casa de hielo. ("¿Quién sabe quién podría estar escondido allí?"), Y pocos de nosotros teníamos la conectividad social para ser invitados a la casa de un niño rico para disfrutar del aire a 70 grados, libre de humedad y alérgenos. This left us in a constant search for cooling activities, especially at dusk when the sky seemed to turn itself inside out and dump the remainder of the day’s heat on our already sweaty heads.

Summer fun in the Lockard family usually involved beer, ice cream and/or pellet guns. (My dad would sit in the backyard with a Michelob and take shots at a cardboard box). Although the kids were always allowed a generous sip of someone’s beer, our “PG” summer evenings centered around ice cream with the favorite destination being the local United Dairy Farmers, or “UDF.”

For some uncanny reason, I still remember the prices which were posted behind the sterile counter at “the Dairy Farmers” as my mother called it. A one-dip cone was 7-cents two dips, 10-cents and a chocolate malt, 19-cents. My dad was entitled to spend 26-cents on a hot fudge sundae. The ice cream was a big treat, but the drama that accompanied it was even better.

We would park our ’54 Chevy on a side street and walk down to UDF. Drive-thru’s were unheard of in 1955. The side street was home to a few uninteresting shops and a haunted factory! Licking our dripping cones while parked next to the ramshackle wooden building, we would listen, spellbound, as my dad told ghost stories. Then, mid-sentence, he’d stop and point to one of the cracked windows in the old factory. “There, did you see it?” he’d exclaim. "¿Qué?" my sister and I would scream. “Well, it’s gone now, but there was a face in that window looking out at us.”

The scenario never changed over the years. Try as we might, Karen and I could never catch a glimpse of the face (probably that of a long dead, disgruntled assembly-line worker). My mother always had the same reaction, rolling her eyes in disbelief and working quietly on her double-dip dish of butter pecan. Despite a lifetime of weddings, funerals, births, accomplishments, comedies and tragedies, those nights in the car, savoring a chocolate chip cone, were some of the most memorable.

Sometimes, you just HAD to have soft serve! On those nights, Dad would guide the Chevy down Montana Hill, to Putz’s. It was at least 10-degrees cooler due to the drop in elevation and Putz’s advantageous location on the border of Mt. Airy Forest. As a teenager, I would ride my horse through the forest and buy him a root beer float. (If it was upsetting to a horse’s delicate digestive system, he never let on!). Here, Dad would splurge on a banana split Mom, a chocolate shake and Karen and I might be allowed a sundae. Sitting in the crowded parking lot on the car hood, we were blessedly cool. Mom, who monetized everything, would eye the lines of customers and comment, “I bet he makes a fortune. I hear they spend the whole winter in Florida!”

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays. “Zip” weighed 120 lbs. and hated anything on four legs. To keep him from tearing up the seats in our car, Mom insisted he wear white anklets, held in place with rubber bands. The image of a dog who could have starred in a Nazi recruiting video, licking a vanilla soft serve while wearing anklets with frilly cuffs has permanently seared itself into my brain.

The Uber Eats of Ice Cream

In the late 1950s, someone had the enterprising idea of bringing ice cream to you, and foregoing the expense of a building, parking lot and additional land for overflow parking. Mister Softee trucks began roaming our neighborhood, triggering a Pavlovian response among anyone under age 12. Just hearing the “ding-ding” of the white truck as it rolled down your street, resulted in salivating and screeching, “Mom! Can I have some mon-eee?”

My mom hated Mister Softee. Not only did the truck show up at random hours, like right at suppertime or 11:30 p.m., rousting all of us from a sound sleep, but Mister Softee was expensive. Mom would grudgingly hand us a dollar and long for the option of a 10-cent UDF cone. “I don’t know where they get away with charging that much,” she’d say, always adding, “This is the LAST time I’m giving you kids money!” In all honesty, she probably bankrolled a few Mister Softee franchises, especially when Dad was home and wanted an extra-large chocolate malt.

Speaking of Pavlov, the familiar “ding-ding” drove Zip into a feeding frenzy. That dog could down a $2 cone in three seconds. Then, one night when my sister was babysitting me, she remembered she had promised to take Zip for a walk. At 10:30 on a humid Friday evening, she hooked up the leash and started on a trek around the block. All was well for the first five minutes, when, approaching from the rear, came Mister Softee, ding-dinging like mad and speeding along at 30 mph. The driver, probably headed home, had no intention of stopping. He blew past Zip and Karen just as our dog was readying for the chase.

My sister finally returned home with bloody knees, blistered hands and a dazed look in her eyes. She told a lurid tale of being dragged for blocks behind the Hound from Hell in pursuit of a large dish of chocolate-vanilla twist. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his white anklets. They would have been shredded!

Other evenings found us and 35 of our closet neighborhood friends catching lightning bugs or playing Swinging Statues on someone’s patchy lawn. Maybe the “Lady of the House” would appear on the porch, proffering a couple of boxes of Eskimo Pies, which would now be known as “Indigenous People” Pies. Some nights, it could be an older sister with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, or a grandma with orange Popsicles. Cooling off in the 50s was as much a social event as a gastronomical happening.

I now live in northwest Ohio a little cooler and not as humid. Last night, though, the temperature was still in the high 80s at 9 pm. As I took my Lab for a bedtime stroll, I swear I heard a “ding-ding.” Tybee perked up his ears and I took a tighter hold on his leash. Let the chase down Memory Lane begin!


UDF, Popsicles and “Politically Incorrect” Ice Cream Treats

In Cincinnati in the 1950s, there were few places that were tolerably cool in June, July and August. There were the indoor movie theaters, all bearing penguin decals on their entry doors with the caption, “C’mon in, it’s COOL inside!” There was the abandoned ice house next to the Westwood Public Library, and the other side of town where the residents were rich enough to have air conditioning.

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays.

Paying for a movie just to enjoy the temperature would have been seen as frivolous. Parents discouraged us from visiting the cool darkness of the ice house. (“Who knows who could be hiding in there?”), and few of us had the social connectivity to be invited to a rich kid’s house to bask in 70-degree air, free of humidity and allergens. This left us in a constant search for cooling activities, especially at dusk when the sky seemed to turn itself inside out and dump the remainder of the day’s heat on our already sweaty heads.

Summer fun in the Lockard family usually involved beer, ice cream and/or pellet guns. (My dad would sit in the backyard with a Michelob and take shots at a cardboard box). Although the kids were always allowed a generous sip of someone’s beer, our “PG” summer evenings centered around ice cream with the favorite destination being the local United Dairy Farmers, or “UDF.”

For some uncanny reason, I still remember the prices which were posted behind the sterile counter at “the Dairy Farmers” as my mother called it. A one-dip cone was 7-cents two dips, 10-cents and a chocolate malt, 19-cents. My dad was entitled to spend 26-cents on a hot fudge sundae. The ice cream was a big treat, but the drama that accompanied it was even better.

We would park our ’54 Chevy on a side street and walk down to UDF. Drive-thru’s were unheard of in 1955. The side street was home to a few uninteresting shops and a haunted factory! Licking our dripping cones while parked next to the ramshackle wooden building, we would listen, spellbound, as my dad told ghost stories. Then, mid-sentence, he’d stop and point to one of the cracked windows in the old factory. “There, did you see it?” he’d exclaim. "¿Qué?" my sister and I would scream. “Well, it’s gone now, but there was a face in that window looking out at us.”

The scenario never changed over the years. Try as we might, Karen and I could never catch a glimpse of the face (probably that of a long dead, disgruntled assembly-line worker). My mother always had the same reaction, rolling her eyes in disbelief and working quietly on her double-dip dish of butter pecan. Despite a lifetime of weddings, funerals, births, accomplishments, comedies and tragedies, those nights in the car, savoring a chocolate chip cone, were some of the most memorable.

Sometimes, you just HAD to have soft serve! On those nights, Dad would guide the Chevy down Montana Hill, to Putz’s. It was at least 10-degrees cooler due to the drop in elevation and Putz’s advantageous location on the border of Mt. Airy Forest. As a teenager, I would ride my horse through the forest and buy him a root beer float. (If it was upsetting to a horse’s delicate digestive system, he never let on!). Here, Dad would splurge on a banana split Mom, a chocolate shake and Karen and I might be allowed a sundae. Sitting in the crowded parking lot on the car hood, we were blessedly cool. Mom, who monetized everything, would eye the lines of customers and comment, “I bet he makes a fortune. I hear they spend the whole winter in Florida!”

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays. “Zip” weighed 120 lbs. and hated anything on four legs. To keep him from tearing up the seats in our car, Mom insisted he wear white anklets, held in place with rubber bands. The image of a dog who could have starred in a Nazi recruiting video, licking a vanilla soft serve while wearing anklets with frilly cuffs has permanently seared itself into my brain.

The Uber Eats of Ice Cream

In the late 1950s, someone had the enterprising idea of bringing ice cream to you, and foregoing the expense of a building, parking lot and additional land for overflow parking. Mister Softee trucks began roaming our neighborhood, triggering a Pavlovian response among anyone under age 12. Just hearing the “ding-ding” of the white truck as it rolled down your street, resulted in salivating and screeching, “Mom! Can I have some mon-eee?”

My mom hated Mister Softee. Not only did the truck show up at random hours, like right at suppertime or 11:30 p.m., rousting all of us from a sound sleep, but Mister Softee was expensive. Mom would grudgingly hand us a dollar and long for the option of a 10-cent UDF cone. “I don’t know where they get away with charging that much,” she’d say, always adding, “This is the LAST time I’m giving you kids money!” In all honesty, she probably bankrolled a few Mister Softee franchises, especially when Dad was home and wanted an extra-large chocolate malt.

Speaking of Pavlov, the familiar “ding-ding” drove Zip into a feeding frenzy. That dog could down a $2 cone in three seconds. Then, one night when my sister was babysitting me, she remembered she had promised to take Zip for a walk. At 10:30 on a humid Friday evening, she hooked up the leash and started on a trek around the block. All was well for the first five minutes, when, approaching from the rear, came Mister Softee, ding-dinging like mad and speeding along at 30 mph. The driver, probably headed home, had no intention of stopping. He blew past Zip and Karen just as our dog was readying for the chase.

My sister finally returned home with bloody knees, blistered hands and a dazed look in her eyes. She told a lurid tale of being dragged for blocks behind the Hound from Hell in pursuit of a large dish of chocolate-vanilla twist. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his white anklets. They would have been shredded!

Other evenings found us and 35 of our closet neighborhood friends catching lightning bugs or playing Swinging Statues on someone’s patchy lawn. Maybe the “Lady of the House” would appear on the porch, proffering a couple of boxes of Eskimo Pies, which would now be known as “Indigenous People” Pies. Some nights, it could be an older sister with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, or a grandma with orange Popsicles. Cooling off in the 50s was as much a social event as a gastronomical happening.

I now live in northwest Ohio a little cooler and not as humid. Last night, though, the temperature was still in the high 80s at 9 pm. As I took my Lab for a bedtime stroll, I swear I heard a “ding-ding.” Tybee perked up his ears and I took a tighter hold on his leash. Let the chase down Memory Lane begin!


UDF, Popsicles and “Politically Incorrect” Ice Cream Treats

In Cincinnati in the 1950s, there were few places that were tolerably cool in June, July and August. There were the indoor movie theaters, all bearing penguin decals on their entry doors with the caption, “C’mon in, it’s COOL inside!” There was the abandoned ice house next to the Westwood Public Library, and the other side of town where the residents were rich enough to have air conditioning.

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays.

Paying for a movie just to enjoy the temperature would have been seen as frivolous. Parents discouraged us from visiting the cool darkness of the ice house. (“Who knows who could be hiding in there?”), and few of us had the social connectivity to be invited to a rich kid’s house to bask in 70-degree air, free of humidity and allergens. This left us in a constant search for cooling activities, especially at dusk when the sky seemed to turn itself inside out and dump the remainder of the day’s heat on our already sweaty heads.

Summer fun in the Lockard family usually involved beer, ice cream and/or pellet guns. (My dad would sit in the backyard with a Michelob and take shots at a cardboard box). Although the kids were always allowed a generous sip of someone’s beer, our “PG” summer evenings centered around ice cream with the favorite destination being the local United Dairy Farmers, or “UDF.”

For some uncanny reason, I still remember the prices which were posted behind the sterile counter at “the Dairy Farmers” as my mother called it. A one-dip cone was 7-cents two dips, 10-cents and a chocolate malt, 19-cents. My dad was entitled to spend 26-cents on a hot fudge sundae. The ice cream was a big treat, but the drama that accompanied it was even better.

We would park our ’54 Chevy on a side street and walk down to UDF. Drive-thru’s were unheard of in 1955. The side street was home to a few uninteresting shops and a haunted factory! Licking our dripping cones while parked next to the ramshackle wooden building, we would listen, spellbound, as my dad told ghost stories. Then, mid-sentence, he’d stop and point to one of the cracked windows in the old factory. “There, did you see it?” he’d exclaim. "¿Qué?" my sister and I would scream. “Well, it’s gone now, but there was a face in that window looking out at us.”

The scenario never changed over the years. Try as we might, Karen and I could never catch a glimpse of the face (probably that of a long dead, disgruntled assembly-line worker). My mother always had the same reaction, rolling her eyes in disbelief and working quietly on her double-dip dish of butter pecan. Despite a lifetime of weddings, funerals, births, accomplishments, comedies and tragedies, those nights in the car, savoring a chocolate chip cone, were some of the most memorable.

Sometimes, you just HAD to have soft serve! On those nights, Dad would guide the Chevy down Montana Hill, to Putz’s. It was at least 10-degrees cooler due to the drop in elevation and Putz’s advantageous location on the border of Mt. Airy Forest. As a teenager, I would ride my horse through the forest and buy him a root beer float. (If it was upsetting to a horse’s delicate digestive system, he never let on!). Here, Dad would splurge on a banana split Mom, a chocolate shake and Karen and I might be allowed a sundae. Sitting in the crowded parking lot on the car hood, we were blessedly cool. Mom, who monetized everything, would eye the lines of customers and comment, “I bet he makes a fortune. I hear they spend the whole winter in Florida!”

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays. “Zip” weighed 120 lbs. and hated anything on four legs. To keep him from tearing up the seats in our car, Mom insisted he wear white anklets, held in place with rubber bands. The image of a dog who could have starred in a Nazi recruiting video, licking a vanilla soft serve while wearing anklets with frilly cuffs has permanently seared itself into my brain.

The Uber Eats of Ice Cream

In the late 1950s, someone had the enterprising idea of bringing ice cream to you, and foregoing the expense of a building, parking lot and additional land for overflow parking. Mister Softee trucks began roaming our neighborhood, triggering a Pavlovian response among anyone under age 12. Just hearing the “ding-ding” of the white truck as it rolled down your street, resulted in salivating and screeching, “Mom! Can I have some mon-eee?”

My mom hated Mister Softee. Not only did the truck show up at random hours, like right at suppertime or 11:30 p.m., rousting all of us from a sound sleep, but Mister Softee was expensive. Mom would grudgingly hand us a dollar and long for the option of a 10-cent UDF cone. “I don’t know where they get away with charging that much,” she’d say, always adding, “This is the LAST time I’m giving you kids money!” In all honesty, she probably bankrolled a few Mister Softee franchises, especially when Dad was home and wanted an extra-large chocolate malt.

Speaking of Pavlov, the familiar “ding-ding” drove Zip into a feeding frenzy. That dog could down a $2 cone in three seconds. Then, one night when my sister was babysitting me, she remembered she had promised to take Zip for a walk. At 10:30 on a humid Friday evening, she hooked up the leash and started on a trek around the block. All was well for the first five minutes, when, approaching from the rear, came Mister Softee, ding-dinging like mad and speeding along at 30 mph. The driver, probably headed home, had no intention of stopping. He blew past Zip and Karen just as our dog was readying for the chase.

My sister finally returned home with bloody knees, blistered hands and a dazed look in her eyes. She told a lurid tale of being dragged for blocks behind the Hound from Hell in pursuit of a large dish of chocolate-vanilla twist. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his white anklets. They would have been shredded!

Other evenings found us and 35 of our closet neighborhood friends catching lightning bugs or playing Swinging Statues on someone’s patchy lawn. Maybe the “Lady of the House” would appear on the porch, proffering a couple of boxes of Eskimo Pies, which would now be known as “Indigenous People” Pies. Some nights, it could be an older sister with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, or a grandma with orange Popsicles. Cooling off in the 50s was as much a social event as a gastronomical happening.

I now live in northwest Ohio a little cooler and not as humid. Last night, though, the temperature was still in the high 80s at 9 pm. As I took my Lab for a bedtime stroll, I swear I heard a “ding-ding.” Tybee perked up his ears and I took a tighter hold on his leash. Let the chase down Memory Lane begin!


UDF, Popsicles and “Politically Incorrect” Ice Cream Treats

In Cincinnati in the 1950s, there were few places that were tolerably cool in June, July and August. There were the indoor movie theaters, all bearing penguin decals on their entry doors with the caption, “C’mon in, it’s COOL inside!” There was the abandoned ice house next to the Westwood Public Library, and the other side of town where the residents were rich enough to have air conditioning.

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays.

Paying for a movie just to enjoy the temperature would have been seen as frivolous. Parents discouraged us from visiting the cool darkness of the ice house. (“Who knows who could be hiding in there?”), and few of us had the social connectivity to be invited to a rich kid’s house to bask in 70-degree air, free of humidity and allergens. This left us in a constant search for cooling activities, especially at dusk when the sky seemed to turn itself inside out and dump the remainder of the day’s heat on our already sweaty heads.

Summer fun in the Lockard family usually involved beer, ice cream and/or pellet guns. (My dad would sit in the backyard with a Michelob and take shots at a cardboard box). Although the kids were always allowed a generous sip of someone’s beer, our “PG” summer evenings centered around ice cream with the favorite destination being the local United Dairy Farmers, or “UDF.”

For some uncanny reason, I still remember the prices which were posted behind the sterile counter at “the Dairy Farmers” as my mother called it. A one-dip cone was 7-cents two dips, 10-cents and a chocolate malt, 19-cents. My dad was entitled to spend 26-cents on a hot fudge sundae. The ice cream was a big treat, but the drama that accompanied it was even better.

We would park our ’54 Chevy on a side street and walk down to UDF. Drive-thru’s were unheard of in 1955. The side street was home to a few uninteresting shops and a haunted factory! Licking our dripping cones while parked next to the ramshackle wooden building, we would listen, spellbound, as my dad told ghost stories. Then, mid-sentence, he’d stop and point to one of the cracked windows in the old factory. “There, did you see it?” he’d exclaim. "¿Qué?" my sister and I would scream. “Well, it’s gone now, but there was a face in that window looking out at us.”

The scenario never changed over the years. Try as we might, Karen and I could never catch a glimpse of the face (probably that of a long dead, disgruntled assembly-line worker). My mother always had the same reaction, rolling her eyes in disbelief and working quietly on her double-dip dish of butter pecan. Despite a lifetime of weddings, funerals, births, accomplishments, comedies and tragedies, those nights in the car, savoring a chocolate chip cone, were some of the most memorable.

Sometimes, you just HAD to have soft serve! On those nights, Dad would guide the Chevy down Montana Hill, to Putz’s. It was at least 10-degrees cooler due to the drop in elevation and Putz’s advantageous location on the border of Mt. Airy Forest. As a teenager, I would ride my horse through the forest and buy him a root beer float. (If it was upsetting to a horse’s delicate digestive system, he never let on!). Here, Dad would splurge on a banana split Mom, a chocolate shake and Karen and I might be allowed a sundae. Sitting in the crowded parking lot on the car hood, we were blessedly cool. Mom, who monetized everything, would eye the lines of customers and comment, “I bet he makes a fortune. I hear they spend the whole winter in Florida!”

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays. “Zip” weighed 120 lbs. and hated anything on four legs. To keep him from tearing up the seats in our car, Mom insisted he wear white anklets, held in place with rubber bands. The image of a dog who could have starred in a Nazi recruiting video, licking a vanilla soft serve while wearing anklets with frilly cuffs has permanently seared itself into my brain.

The Uber Eats of Ice Cream

In the late 1950s, someone had the enterprising idea of bringing ice cream to you, and foregoing the expense of a building, parking lot and additional land for overflow parking. Mister Softee trucks began roaming our neighborhood, triggering a Pavlovian response among anyone under age 12. Just hearing the “ding-ding” of the white truck as it rolled down your street, resulted in salivating and screeching, “Mom! Can I have some mon-eee?”

My mom hated Mister Softee. Not only did the truck show up at random hours, like right at suppertime or 11:30 p.m., rousting all of us from a sound sleep, but Mister Softee was expensive. Mom would grudgingly hand us a dollar and long for the option of a 10-cent UDF cone. “I don’t know where they get away with charging that much,” she’d say, always adding, “This is the LAST time I’m giving you kids money!” In all honesty, she probably bankrolled a few Mister Softee franchises, especially when Dad was home and wanted an extra-large chocolate malt.

Speaking of Pavlov, the familiar “ding-ding” drove Zip into a feeding frenzy. That dog could down a $2 cone in three seconds. Then, one night when my sister was babysitting me, she remembered she had promised to take Zip for a walk. At 10:30 on a humid Friday evening, she hooked up the leash and started on a trek around the block. All was well for the first five minutes, when, approaching from the rear, came Mister Softee, ding-dinging like mad and speeding along at 30 mph. The driver, probably headed home, had no intention of stopping. He blew past Zip and Karen just as our dog was readying for the chase.

My sister finally returned home with bloody knees, blistered hands and a dazed look in her eyes. She told a lurid tale of being dragged for blocks behind the Hound from Hell in pursuit of a large dish of chocolate-vanilla twist. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his white anklets. They would have been shredded!

Other evenings found us and 35 of our closet neighborhood friends catching lightning bugs or playing Swinging Statues on someone’s patchy lawn. Maybe the “Lady of the House” would appear on the porch, proffering a couple of boxes of Eskimo Pies, which would now be known as “Indigenous People” Pies. Some nights, it could be an older sister with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, or a grandma with orange Popsicles. Cooling off in the 50s was as much a social event as a gastronomical happening.

I now live in northwest Ohio a little cooler and not as humid. Last night, though, the temperature was still in the high 80s at 9 pm. As I took my Lab for a bedtime stroll, I swear I heard a “ding-ding.” Tybee perked up his ears and I took a tighter hold on his leash. Let the chase down Memory Lane begin!


UDF, Popsicles and “Politically Incorrect” Ice Cream Treats

In Cincinnati in the 1950s, there were few places that were tolerably cool in June, July and August. There were the indoor movie theaters, all bearing penguin decals on their entry doors with the caption, “C’mon in, it’s COOL inside!” There was the abandoned ice house next to the Westwood Public Library, and the other side of town where the residents were rich enough to have air conditioning.

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays.

Paying for a movie just to enjoy the temperature would have been seen as frivolous. Parents discouraged us from visiting the cool darkness of the ice house. (“Who knows who could be hiding in there?”), and few of us had the social connectivity to be invited to a rich kid’s house to bask in 70-degree air, free of humidity and allergens. This left us in a constant search for cooling activities, especially at dusk when the sky seemed to turn itself inside out and dump the remainder of the day’s heat on our already sweaty heads.

Summer fun in the Lockard family usually involved beer, ice cream and/or pellet guns. (My dad would sit in the backyard with a Michelob and take shots at a cardboard box). Although the kids were always allowed a generous sip of someone’s beer, our “PG” summer evenings centered around ice cream with the favorite destination being the local United Dairy Farmers, or “UDF.”

For some uncanny reason, I still remember the prices which were posted behind the sterile counter at “the Dairy Farmers” as my mother called it. A one-dip cone was 7-cents two dips, 10-cents and a chocolate malt, 19-cents. My dad was entitled to spend 26-cents on a hot fudge sundae. The ice cream was a big treat, but the drama that accompanied it was even better.

We would park our ’54 Chevy on a side street and walk down to UDF. Drive-thru’s were unheard of in 1955. The side street was home to a few uninteresting shops and a haunted factory! Licking our dripping cones while parked next to the ramshackle wooden building, we would listen, spellbound, as my dad told ghost stories. Then, mid-sentence, he’d stop and point to one of the cracked windows in the old factory. “There, did you see it?” he’d exclaim. "¿Qué?" my sister and I would scream. “Well, it’s gone now, but there was a face in that window looking out at us.”

The scenario never changed over the years. Try as we might, Karen and I could never catch a glimpse of the face (probably that of a long dead, disgruntled assembly-line worker). My mother always had the same reaction, rolling her eyes in disbelief and working quietly on her double-dip dish of butter pecan. Despite a lifetime of weddings, funerals, births, accomplishments, comedies and tragedies, those nights in the car, savoring a chocolate chip cone, were some of the most memorable.

Sometimes, you just HAD to have soft serve! On those nights, Dad would guide the Chevy down Montana Hill, to Putz’s. It was at least 10-degrees cooler due to the drop in elevation and Putz’s advantageous location on the border of Mt. Airy Forest. As a teenager, I would ride my horse through the forest and buy him a root beer float. (If it was upsetting to a horse’s delicate digestive system, he never let on!). Here, Dad would splurge on a banana split Mom, a chocolate shake and Karen and I might be allowed a sundae. Sitting in the crowded parking lot on the car hood, we were blessedly cool. Mom, who monetized everything, would eye the lines of customers and comment, “I bet he makes a fortune. I hear they spend the whole winter in Florida!”

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays. “Zip” weighed 120 lbs. and hated anything on four legs. To keep him from tearing up the seats in our car, Mom insisted he wear white anklets, held in place with rubber bands. The image of a dog who could have starred in a Nazi recruiting video, licking a vanilla soft serve while wearing anklets with frilly cuffs has permanently seared itself into my brain.

The Uber Eats of Ice Cream

In the late 1950s, someone had the enterprising idea of bringing ice cream to you, and foregoing the expense of a building, parking lot and additional land for overflow parking. Mister Softee trucks began roaming our neighborhood, triggering a Pavlovian response among anyone under age 12. Just hearing the “ding-ding” of the white truck as it rolled down your street, resulted in salivating and screeching, “Mom! Can I have some mon-eee?”

My mom hated Mister Softee. Not only did the truck show up at random hours, like right at suppertime or 11:30 p.m., rousting all of us from a sound sleep, but Mister Softee was expensive. Mom would grudgingly hand us a dollar and long for the option of a 10-cent UDF cone. “I don’t know where they get away with charging that much,” she’d say, always adding, “This is the LAST time I’m giving you kids money!” In all honesty, she probably bankrolled a few Mister Softee franchises, especially when Dad was home and wanted an extra-large chocolate malt.

Speaking of Pavlov, the familiar “ding-ding” drove Zip into a feeding frenzy. That dog could down a $2 cone in three seconds. Then, one night when my sister was babysitting me, she remembered she had promised to take Zip for a walk. At 10:30 on a humid Friday evening, she hooked up the leash and started on a trek around the block. All was well for the first five minutes, when, approaching from the rear, came Mister Softee, ding-dinging like mad and speeding along at 30 mph. The driver, probably headed home, had no intention of stopping. He blew past Zip and Karen just as our dog was readying for the chase.

My sister finally returned home with bloody knees, blistered hands and a dazed look in her eyes. She told a lurid tale of being dragged for blocks behind the Hound from Hell in pursuit of a large dish of chocolate-vanilla twist. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his white anklets. They would have been shredded!

Other evenings found us and 35 of our closet neighborhood friends catching lightning bugs or playing Swinging Statues on someone’s patchy lawn. Maybe the “Lady of the House” would appear on the porch, proffering a couple of boxes of Eskimo Pies, which would now be known as “Indigenous People” Pies. Some nights, it could be an older sister with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, or a grandma with orange Popsicles. Cooling off in the 50s was as much a social event as a gastronomical happening.

I now live in northwest Ohio a little cooler and not as humid. Last night, though, the temperature was still in the high 80s at 9 pm. As I took my Lab for a bedtime stroll, I swear I heard a “ding-ding.” Tybee perked up his ears and I took a tighter hold on his leash. Let the chase down Memory Lane begin!


UDF, Popsicles and “Politically Incorrect” Ice Cream Treats

In Cincinnati in the 1950s, there were few places that were tolerably cool in June, July and August. There were the indoor movie theaters, all bearing penguin decals on their entry doors with the caption, “C’mon in, it’s COOL inside!” There was the abandoned ice house next to the Westwood Public Library, and the other side of town where the residents were rich enough to have air conditioning.

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays.

Paying for a movie just to enjoy the temperature would have been seen as frivolous. Parents discouraged us from visiting the cool darkness of the ice house. (“Who knows who could be hiding in there?”), and few of us had the social connectivity to be invited to a rich kid’s house to bask in 70-degree air, free of humidity and allergens. This left us in a constant search for cooling activities, especially at dusk when the sky seemed to turn itself inside out and dump the remainder of the day’s heat on our already sweaty heads.

Summer fun in the Lockard family usually involved beer, ice cream and/or pellet guns. (My dad would sit in the backyard with a Michelob and take shots at a cardboard box). Although the kids were always allowed a generous sip of someone’s beer, our “PG” summer evenings centered around ice cream with the favorite destination being the local United Dairy Farmers, or “UDF.”

For some uncanny reason, I still remember the prices which were posted behind the sterile counter at “the Dairy Farmers” as my mother called it. A one-dip cone was 7-cents two dips, 10-cents and a chocolate malt, 19-cents. My dad was entitled to spend 26-cents on a hot fudge sundae. The ice cream was a big treat, but the drama that accompanied it was even better.

We would park our ’54 Chevy on a side street and walk down to UDF. Drive-thru’s were unheard of in 1955. The side street was home to a few uninteresting shops and a haunted factory! Licking our dripping cones while parked next to the ramshackle wooden building, we would listen, spellbound, as my dad told ghost stories. Then, mid-sentence, he’d stop and point to one of the cracked windows in the old factory. “There, did you see it?” he’d exclaim. "¿Qué?" my sister and I would scream. “Well, it’s gone now, but there was a face in that window looking out at us.”

The scenario never changed over the years. Try as we might, Karen and I could never catch a glimpse of the face (probably that of a long dead, disgruntled assembly-line worker). My mother always had the same reaction, rolling her eyes in disbelief and working quietly on her double-dip dish of butter pecan. Despite a lifetime of weddings, funerals, births, accomplishments, comedies and tragedies, those nights in the car, savoring a chocolate chip cone, were some of the most memorable.

Sometimes, you just HAD to have soft serve! On those nights, Dad would guide the Chevy down Montana Hill, to Putz’s. It was at least 10-degrees cooler due to the drop in elevation and Putz’s advantageous location on the border of Mt. Airy Forest. As a teenager, I would ride my horse through the forest and buy him a root beer float. (If it was upsetting to a horse’s delicate digestive system, he never let on!). Here, Dad would splurge on a banana split Mom, a chocolate shake and Karen and I might be allowed a sundae. Sitting in the crowded parking lot on the car hood, we were blessedly cool. Mom, who monetized everything, would eye the lines of customers and comment, “I bet he makes a fortune. I hear they spend the whole winter in Florida!”

Occasionally, our oversized German Shepherd would be permitted to accompany us on these nighttime forays. “Zip” weighed 120 lbs. and hated anything on four legs. To keep him from tearing up the seats in our car, Mom insisted he wear white anklets, held in place with rubber bands. The image of a dog who could have starred in a Nazi recruiting video, licking a vanilla soft serve while wearing anklets with frilly cuffs has permanently seared itself into my brain.

The Uber Eats of Ice Cream

In the late 1950s, someone had the enterprising idea of bringing ice cream to you, and foregoing the expense of a building, parking lot and additional land for overflow parking. Mister Softee trucks began roaming our neighborhood, triggering a Pavlovian response among anyone under age 12. Just hearing the “ding-ding” of the white truck as it rolled down your street, resulted in salivating and screeching, “Mom! Can I have some mon-eee?”

My mom hated Mister Softee. Not only did the truck show up at random hours, like right at suppertime or 11:30 p.m., rousting all of us from a sound sleep, but Mister Softee was expensive. Mom would grudgingly hand us a dollar and long for the option of a 10-cent UDF cone. “I don’t know where they get away with charging that much,” she’d say, always adding, “This is the LAST time I’m giving you kids money!” In all honesty, she probably bankrolled a few Mister Softee franchises, especially when Dad was home and wanted an extra-large chocolate malt.

Speaking of Pavlov, the familiar “ding-ding” drove Zip into a feeding frenzy. That dog could down a $2 cone in three seconds. Then, one night when my sister was babysitting me, she remembered she had promised to take Zip for a walk. At 10:30 on a humid Friday evening, she hooked up the leash and started on a trek around the block. All was well for the first five minutes, when, approaching from the rear, came Mister Softee, ding-dinging like mad and speeding along at 30 mph. The driver, probably headed home, had no intention of stopping. He blew past Zip and Karen just as our dog was readying for the chase.

My sister finally returned home with bloody knees, blistered hands and a dazed look in her eyes. She told a lurid tale of being dragged for blocks behind the Hound from Hell in pursuit of a large dish of chocolate-vanilla twist. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his white anklets. They would have been shredded!

Other evenings found us and 35 of our closet neighborhood friends catching lightning bugs or playing Swinging Statues on someone’s patchy lawn. Maybe the “Lady of the House” would appear on the porch, proffering a couple of boxes of Eskimo Pies, which would now be known as “Indigenous People” Pies. Some nights, it could be an older sister with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, or a grandma with orange Popsicles. Cooling off in the 50s was as much a social event as a gastronomical happening.

I now live in northwest Ohio a little cooler and not as humid. Last night, though, the temperature was still in the high 80s at 9 pm. As I took my Lab for a bedtime stroll, I swear I heard a “ding-ding.” Tybee perked up his ears and I took a tighter hold on his leash. Let the chase down Memory Lane begin!


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