Yum-Yum

 Last weekend, I had the opportunity to visit the town that I consider my hometown, though in point of fact, I lived there only as an adolescent. My daughter was going to an event in Philadelphia and her idea was for her father and I to be her chauffeurs. We'd all drive to Haddonfield, and she would take the train Philly (and back after the event) so we could chauffeur her home again. Her selling point was that we'd get to spend time in my favorite South Jersey town. Kind of an impractical plan unless, of course, you’re the parent of a young adult who chooses to seize every opportunity to spend time with them, even if it’s just while they’re in the backseat of the car. 

Translation: I'm a sucker for both her and the town, so I took her up on her "generous offer."

Her main reason for the visit to Jersey, to be honest, was not her love for the town – although she does like it quite a bit, which makes me happy – it was to patronize a gluten-free shop. We'd first been there when she I took the trip (minus the Philadelphia detour) a year or so ago, and I shared all my stories of all the places. This time, she wasn’t around for the storytelling, but my husband was. 

It’s amazing how much a place can spark memories and emotion. Chief among them was pride, not just in the person I was then, but also in the town itself which still feels like a charming little hamlet -- one that was much more abuzz on a random Sunday afternoon than I expected it to be. This pride (and a bit of amazement) also extended to my mother, who did not drive, and walked back and forth to work every day dressed in full professional garb, as only she could. She was not that much younger than I am now, and the fact that I could definitely feel the difference in that journey now compared to traveling the same sidewalks as a teenager was what put me (once again) in awe of my mom.

I’m grateful that my husband chose to make the trip. Of the three of us, he had the least amount of interest in the destination, but opted to join us anyway. He also had the greatest amount of patience in the journey, not only in being the principal driver, but also in listening to my endless stories and letting me lead the way, which is not something that always comes easily for him.

It was a nice day, albeit a warm one. There were many wonderful memories, but perhaps the best one caught me by surprise. We were hot and tired and thirsty, and we stopped to sit, and my husband went to a little ice cream spot, ostensibly to get a beverage. He returned instead with an Italian water ice. 

I’ve had many versions of water ice over my life, but the one that’s stuck with me as the best was called Yum-Yum. It was a concoction I don’t ever recall having in Haddonfield, but rather in nearby Pennsauken where I spent my childhood. A man would go up and down our suburban street pulling a wagon with a tub of Italian ice in it, singsonging, "Yum-Yum, Yum-Yum." Parents would hand their children a few coins, and we would dash out and take this treat from a stranger dishing it out of a tub in a wagon. No one thought anything of it. In fact, it was just life in our neighborhood, another version of the ice cream truck that drew the same reaction.

Sitting in the gazebo in Haddonfield nearly sixty years later, my husband offered me a taste of his Italian ice and I was shocked to discover that it tasted exactly like the treat from the Yum-Yum man. Suddenly, I was eight years old again, and if I could have gotten my own tub of Yum-Yum/Italian ice safely home without it melting all over the car, I would’ve done exactly that. Even funnier, when I told my dad the story, I discovered that he was himself something of a Yum-Yum man, purchasing his own tub of the sweet treat and selling it at a profit.

It’s funny the memories that places stir up. And it’s lovely sharing those with the people we love now, sharing a history that precedes our current lives. 

I’m grateful that they listen to my stories.