"We're having a heat wave, a tropical heat wave..." Hey, wait a minute! I'm not in the tropics.

Right now, over 30 of our 50 U.S. states are reporting temperatures well above melting human flesh. That’s not technically true. If Madame Tussauds’ Wax Museum people were standing outside, they would be blobs, so close enough. We’ve got a serious case of what our clownish “Chief Meteorologist” calls the “Triple H’s”: hazy, hot, and humid weather. I call it the “Single H”: Hellish.

I’d be okay if I could hibernate inside, enjoying increasing my carbon footprint as my A/C runs non-stop, but my sweet, stubborn dog refuses to poop on the three, count ’em, three walks I’ve already taken him on today.

I inhaled a few deep breaths of cool A/C air and ventured out one more time. The sun was shining and I slowly paddled my way through the H2O-laden gas that was passing for air.

“Okay, Scrappy, this is it. Now’s your chance. Be a good boy and go poop for Mommy.”

Let's see what's over there. Oh, goodie! Another smell. And look--a jogger. Oh Boy, this is fun!

Scrappy trotted along, sniffing, peeing and observing the occasional flying bug.

“Let’s go, Scrap. It’s hot out here. Make a poopy for Mommy so we can go home.” This might be a good time to remind you that I have a Ph.D. in sociology and have won many prestigious professional awards.

Scrappy feigned a poop stance then got distracted by a jogger. I began muttering angrily, hoping passersby would think I was conducting business via a wireless ear-piece.

We were headed for the final stretch home when two magical events occurred simultaneously:

  1. Without any further cajoling, Scrappy pooped and I scooped. I felt like a big-game hunter on safari who finally bagged her prey after a long day on the Savannah.

    In Mogambo "steamy" sure comes to mind. On my 4th long walk with Scrappy in 90 degree heat after he pooped, things were steamy, too; but the visual of Gabel and Gardner is much more pleasant.

  2. I heard the faint sound of what seemed like music from an old-fashioned organ-grinder–the kind you’d find an old man playing while an entertaining monkey collected money from a delighted crowd.

At first, I thought I might be hallucinating–the auditory equivalent of a mirage–due to the heat and over-excitement at Scrappy’s poop production. But the music got louder. “Yankee Doodle” was mechanically filling the already heavy air. I looked around and saw the source of the  music.

This company has been around since 1975, a tribute to the quality of its product overcoming the questionable judgment of the founders who came up with the name.

It was a slow-moving, old-fashioned ice-cream truck with the name “Mr. Ding-A-Ling.” The sides were open so that Mr. Ding-A-Ling could easily stop, swing out and serve any over-heated ice-cream-craving customers he happened to see.

I was transported back to my youth. In those days, the truck had more of a tinkle-tinkle sound and the friendly man in uniform was the Good Humor Man. I often focus on how times have dramatically changed. Today I was reminded that some simple things, thankfully, haven’t changed all that much–at least in my little corner of the world.

We listened for his bell and ran to greet this man who did, indeed, have good humor inside and outside of that white truck.

In my condo community we have lots of children, ergo, customers. I hope they’re ready because Mr. Ding-A-Ling is a-comin’ !