Tradition Melts Away
Dallas Morning News, June 15th 2002
By William Dylan Powell

At one time, the ice cream man was America on wheels.

More institution than business, he was especially popular in the summer when the idea of finding the nearest frozen object and consuming it sounded pretty good.

But as fundamental as he has been to the American experience, it looks as if his sweet tenure is melting away.

About 3 o'clock last Saturday afternoon, I noticed a van that could have just exited the 1970s TV show CHIPS--spewing emissions that would have made Christie Todd Whitman break down in tears. It drove slowly, as if to case our neighbor's house. So I couldn't help but stare.

As it approached, I heard a faint tune from the truck's underbelly. But it didn't seem to matter. A small group of children who had been playing in the street made little effort to acknowledge it.

As the van with its crooked signs crept by, I could catch just a glimpse of the driver--shirtless and with a tattoo on his shoulder. This was the ice cream man?

When I was a child, the ice cream man could quell a temper tantrum with the mere perception of his presence. He could lure schoolyard bullies away from their mischief, as well as make usually well-behaved kids plunder their house for spare change. Parents had the chance to buy 20 minutes of relative peace and quiet for less than a buck.

But the past few decades haven't been kind to this American institution. From what I can tell, three things explain why life has changed so much for the ice cream man: economic pressures, regulatory measures and cultural changes. The signs of extinction abound.

It is tough to make ends meet today in direct ice cream sales. As with most industries, gone are the days of the Company Man. It usually is a secondary source of income, requiring a significant upfront investment. Margins are thin. Often, ice cream truck drivers must enter franchise contracts and use their personal vehicles to make the venture economically feasible.

That would explain why the trucks themselves often no longer look like the distinctive old-fashioned wagons of halcyon days past. But don't count on making that hefty SUV payment by peddling push-up bars. A horde of regulatory bodies will enforce strict--and expensive--guidelines on how you operate both the vehicle and your business. In Houston, ice cream trucks have been banned from selling in school zones during class hours. And in other communities, they have been banned altogether.

But the vendors haven't changed as much as the streets on which they sell. Who is outside to hear the ice cream man anymore? This is the age of air conditioning, hyper-engineered video gaming systems, satellite television and the Internet. Kids spend more time indoors. And this trend isn't solely a reflection of juvenile preference, as parents--mistrustful and media-saturated--endow their offspring with nightmarish tales of crime, evil and disaster. Every shadow is a trap, and terrorists lurk behind closed doors nationwide.

So to avoid the headaches of supervision, parents lock up their kids like Star Wars collectibles. They take on Herculean mortgages to live in gated communities and overbook their offspring with supervised activities. Nowadays, ice cream is purchased from bulk warehouse retailers like Sam's.

Selling ice cream from a truck is a tough job. The relentless music. The sticky, incorrectly counted coins. The heat. Being identified as both the destroyer of young teeth and a magnet for pedophilia. It is a job that no sane person would want. And in a few decades, this American icon is likely to finish its progression from prominence to history.

It makes me sad.

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