I was at the park today with my kids when a diesel ice cream truck pulled in. The man, in his fifties, kept the fifteen year old truck spewing smoke as he passed out frozen treats packed with artificial colors and flavors and enough preservatives to outlive the kids who ate them.
I stood by silently, my young ones knowing better than to ask, since for the past four years their mommy claims not to have any money, or rambles on about how unhealthy that ice cream is, convincing them to go to the New Morning to pick up some organic, lactose-free, all natural, frozen desserts.
Then it hit me: this must have been what the first proponents of banning second hand smoke must have felt like. Unsure, insecure, timid. I marched up to the truck and asked if he'd be staying long. "Nope."
"Good, I replied, because we can smell your truck all the way across the park." "If you're so worried about it, why didn't you walk instead of drive here?" he spat back.
Tonight, I'll dream of electric powered ice cream trucks that sell organic, healthy frozen treats on sultry summer days.