By Deirdre O'Connor

“Come and get your hokey-pokey snowball!” At the sound, I’d wake up from my summer reverie lying on the porch and run into the house. “Nanny! Nanny! The hokey-pokey snowball man is over in the park. May I get one, please?”

If my grandmother had some coins to spare, she’d fish two pennies out of her purse. Clutching them I’d run as fast as I could to find the snowball man.

My maternal grandmother lived across the street from a lovely park, an entire city block of trees, paths and water fountains, the center of all activities. Now all the kids on Johnson Street ran, pennies clenched in our fists, yelling, “Hokey-pokey man! Wait!”

The hokey-pokey man was small and tan, with a cotton scarf tied around his neck, perspiring copiously in Philadelphia’s 100-degree heat. He always pretended he wasn’t going to stop. He’d keep pushing the large heavy cart. It had a huge block of ice resting securely on the top, while on the side was a row of bright colored bottles peeking out from their shelf auditioning the flavors waiting for us.

When the man picked up the cart and trudged a few feet, we’d yell, “Wait! Wait!” Of course we knew he was going to stop. But this was part of the excitement to get a cup of fine shaved ice covered with delicious flavoring.

“How can such noisy children expect to have my wonderful snowballs? I can’t think! Did you leave your manners across the street?” He’d pick up the cart’s heavy handles and walk a few steps.

“No! Don’t leave!” we’d yell. “We’ll be good!”

He’d give us a dark look. “I don’t know if you deserve my hokey-pokey snowballs. Not that you’d know, but how do good children behave?”

We lined up obediently. As our turn came, he took the money from our damp hands and gave us one minute - not a second more - to make up our minds choosing which flavor we wanted. I always chose cherry.

If someone didn’t say, “Thank you!” the man would pretend to be angry. “Oh! What a terrible child! He has no manners! Yet he expects me to shave the ice, pour the flavor and give it so politely to a child who’ll end up in prison some day.”

Of course the miscreant immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. Thank you so much!”

We’d lick the cool ice, chase the drips of the flavors running down our cups so we wouldn’t get them on our clothes, blissful to have our tongues turn the bright color of the flavor we’d chosen.

Those hokey-pokey snowballs were the best treat I’ve ever tasted.

Deirdre O’Connor is a longtime Los Altos resident and frequent Town Crier contributor.