I grew up in the rolling hills of northwest Arkansas, where childhood summers were made mostly for riding around on bikes with neighborhood friends, cooling off in sprinklers, lying under the big front yard tree with a good book and begging for a quarter to buy a treat from the ice cream man. My younger brother, friends and I could hear the rhapsodic sound of the ice cream truck’s song from streets away; we’d hear it, drop whatever we were doing and run swiftly to the road (stopping, of c...
