"The Ice Cream Man Cometh"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

In the whole wide world — which, as NASA has proven, is a whole lot wider than Pluto, a Disney character who can’t hold a candle to “Sesame Street” star Elmo — nothing is sweeter than my granddaughter, Chloe.

The only thing that comes close is ice cream. So it was especially sweet when Chloe, who’s a big Elmo fan, recently met Christos Skartsiaris, our neighborhood ice cream man.

Chris, who has driven his truck on the same route for almost 40 years, pulled up in front of my house on a warm weekend afternoon, the annoyingly repetitive strains of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” mercifully silenced when he turned off the ignition.

“Doesn’t listening to that song over and over drive you crazy?” I asked. To which Chris responded, “What song?”

As I peered into the open side window of the truck, I saw not only the extensive selection of frozen treats but a small gallery of photos.

“My grandchildren,” said Chris, who has four, with one on the way.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “I’m a grandfather, too. My granddaughter should be here any minute. She’s not driving yet because she’s only 2.”

“That will happen soon enough,” said Chris.

“As I have told people who aren’t grandparents: If you think your kids grow up fast, wait until you have grandchildren,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” replied Chris, whose grandchildren — Nico, 8; Logan, 8; Sophia, 5; and Dylan, 4 — are growing up fast because, in part, they are nourished with ice cream.

“They’ll ask me, ‘Papou, can I get something from your truck?’ Of course, I always say yes,” said Chris, whose wife, Joan, is called Yaya.

“Chloe calls me Poppie,” I said, adding that my wife, Sue, is Nini.

“Kids these days are really smart,” Chris said. “I had a hundred-dollar bill recently and Nico said, ‘Papou, can I have this dollar?’ I said, ‘Sure, if you give me $99 in change.’ He smiled because he knew it wasn’t a dollar.”

“Nico could be my accountant,” I declared.

“I wasn’t that smart when I was 8,” said Chris.

“I’m not that smart now,” I conceded.

Just then, Chloe pulled up with my younger daughter, Lauren (Mommy); my son-in-law Guillaume (Daddy); and Maggie the dog (Maggie).

“Poppie!” Chloe squealed when she saw me.

Lauren brought her over to the truck and introduced her to Chris.

“Hello, beautiful girl,” Chris said as he scooped (he is, after all, an ice cream man) Chloe into his arms.

“Say hi,” Lauren urged Chloe.

“Hi,” Chloe said tentatively.

Chris put her down and showed her his rolling office. Chloe was fascinated.

“She’s like a kid in an ice cream truck,” I said.

Chris asked what she wanted.

“I-keem!” Chloe exclaimed.

Lauren suggested a Jolly Rancher push-up pop, a rainbow-colored treat with cherry, watermelon and green apple flavors.

“What do you say?” Lauren asked Chloe when Chris handed her the pop.

“Thank you,” Chloe said.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” said Chris, who propped her on the window ledge.

Chloe sat there and ate her ice cream, smearing it on her mouth like lipstick and licking it off.

“Here’s another one,” Chris said, handing it to Lauren. “For later.”

He also gave ice cream to the rest of us.

“It’s on me,” Chris said.

At that point, it also was on Chloe, who couldn’t quite keep up with the melting treat.

“Looks like Mommy has to do laundry,” Chris observed.

Then he started up his truck, “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” ringing once more through the neighborhood.

“Say bye,” Lauren said to Chloe.

“Bye,” Chloe said.

“And thank you.”

“Thank you.”

After dinner, Chloe went to the front door, looking for the truck.

“I-keem,” she said.

Chloe had made a friend. And he’s sweet, too.

Copyright 2015 by Jerry Zezima

"The Royal Treatment"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Since the birth of the little princess, people around the world have been abuzz with excitement.

I refer, of course, to my granddaughter, Chloe.

People seem excited about Princess Charlotte, too.

That goes for the royal family, but it also goes for my family because Chloe’s daddy, Guillaume, refers to Charlotte’s big brother, Prince George, as “my future son-in-law.”

And now Chloe and George could get a chance to meet. According to published reports, the royal family is renting a mansion for the summer in the Hamptons, the tony towns on Long Island, New York, that are a birthstone’s throw from my family’s home, the Zezimanse.

“I think Chloe and George would be perfect for each other,” said Patrick McLaughlin, a licensed broker for Douglas Elliman Real Estate in East Hampton, my second-favorite Hampton after Lionel. “They’re a little young yet,” McLaughlin added, “but I have no doubt that one day it will be a marriage made in heaven.”

I have no doubt, either. As I explained to McLaughlin, Guillaume and my younger daughter, Lauren, were married in the South of France in 2011, one day after George’s parents, William and Kate, were married in England. That made the royal couple the opening act for the real Wedding of the Century.

After I wrote to William and Kate to congratulate them, I got a lovely letter in return, thanking me for my good wishes and wishing Lauren and Guillaume the best.

When George was born in 2013, four months after Chloe, I sent a congratulatory letter to Prince Charles, from one grandfather to another. He must have been all ears, because he sent me a postcard of himself and his lovely wife, Camilla, as a token of his appreciation.

Naturally, the Zezimas were ecstatic when Charlotte was born in May, though we know that Chloe is the true princess.

“That’s safe to say,” McLaughlin noted. “I can see why George would be eager to meet her.”

In addition to selling and renting real estate to the rich and famous, whose identities are his little secret, McLaughlin writes a whimsical blog for Hamptons Chatter, a website that contains chatter about — you guessed it — Grand Forks, North Dakota.

No, I mean the Hamptons.

“I have fun with it,” said McLaughlin, who recently posted a piece about the rumored royal visit.

It began: “The royal formerly known as Prince William, now known as Kate Middleton’s husband, is apparently planning to bring his Windsor brood to spend their summer in the Hamptons! I know! I know! I’m as excited as the next Anglophile!”

I’m excited, too! And not just because of McLaughlin’s propensity for using exclamation points!

“Hi, William,” he continued. “Hopefully, you didn’t buy that real estate yet and you’ll be calling me as your agent in the near future.”

McLaughlin offered some suggestions about must-see spots in the Hamptons.

“One of them is Cyril’s, a great dive bar,” McLaughlin told me.

“I’ve been known to frequent dive bars,” I said. “Maybe William and I could have a pint of ale.”

“Then,” McLaughlin suggested, “you could take him to Home Goods. That’s another place he absolutely has to see.”

“I’m sure Kate would love to shop there,” I said.

“And she’d get great bargains,” said McLaughlin, adding that the royal family simply has to visit Martha Stewart, who has a home in the Hamptons. “She loves drop-by guests,” he noted.

“Do you think Martha would love it if I dropped by?” I asked.

“I’m sure she would,” McLaughlin said. “She might even bake you a cake.”

But the real highlight would be a royal visit to my house.

“It’s not technically in the Hamptons,” I said. “But it has a nice backyard with a slide and a kiddie pool.”

“Chloe and George aren’t old enough for cocktails by the pool,” McLaughlin said, “but you could serve them juice in sippy cups.”

“It’s a little too early to start planning a wedding,” I said. “But I know it’ll be love at first sight.”

Copyright 2015 by Jerry Zezima

"Home Alone"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If Hollywood wants to make another “Home Alone” movie, this time with the Macaulay Culkin character all grown up but no more mature than he was as an 8-year-old in the 1990 original, I would be happy to take the role.

That’s because I was recently left home alone for the weekend.

My wife, Sue, without whom I would have starved to death long ago, went out of town, leaving me to my own devices. Fortunately, the devices included a corkscrew, if I wanted some wine, and a bottle opener, if I wanted some beer. I had both, though not at the same time because even I know that if you go too crazy on the libations while you are home alone, and happen to lock yourself outside or start a kitchen fire and can’t find the phone to call 911, or realize, as the house burns to the ground, that you forgot to buy marshmallows, there is no one there to help you.

In fact, there is no one there to do anything with you. Dismiss the notion that you will have a wild party. When the cat’s away, the mice will not play. I am a man, not a mouse, and the only creature that kept me any company was our cat, Bernice, who is — I say this with great affection — a total moron.

To make sure I wasn’t bored, Sue left me a list of things to do, including the crucially important chore of watering the garden.

“Did you remember to do that?” she asked when she called, presumably to see if I was still alive.

“Yes,” I told her proudly. “I was so excited, I wet my plants.”

I could hear Sue’s eyes roll in their sockets on the other end of the phone.

Still, I wanted a little time to myself, which wasn’t difficult since I was alone anyway, so I drove into town to buy a cigar.

When I got to the cigar store, I asked the owner, Julio, if his wife had ever left him home alone.

“Yes,” he said.

“What did you do?” I wondered.

“I took out the garbage and watched a lot of sports on TV,” said Julio, who will celebrate his 20th wedding anniversary in October.

“That’s a biggie,” I noted. “Don’t forget it.”

“I did forget our anniversary once and my wife wasn’t happy,” Julio said. “Now I write it down on the calendar. If I forget it again, she might leave me home for good.”

Outside, I met Frank and Denise, who have been married for 28 years.

“Has your wife ever left you home alone?” I asked Frank.

“Once,” he said.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I went to Puerto Rico,” Frank answered.

“What a swell idea!” I exclaimed. “But I don’t have time. My wife will be home tomorrow.”

“Make sure you clean up after yourself,” Denise advised. “You don’t want your wife coming home to a mess.”

“I’ve been making messes for the 37 years we have been married,” I said. “But I’ll try to make sure the house is nice and neat.”

When I got home, I went outside, climbed into a hammock with a beer and a cigar, and enjoyed some quality time with myself.

Afterward, I heard the familiar strains of the neighborhood ice cream truck. I went around front and bought a toasted almond bar from Chris, who has been on the same route since the 1970s.

“Does your wife ever leave you home alone?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Chris, who has been married for 48 years.

“What do you do?” I inquired.

“Eat, work and sleep,” he said. “Some guys fool around.”

“Not me,” I said.

“Me, either,” said Chris, who admitted that he doesn’t do household chores while his wife is away.

“I do,” I said. “In fact, I have to go inside and do them before my wife gets back. But I’ll tell you this: The next time she leaves me home alone, I’m going to Puerto Rico.”

Copyright 2015 by Jerry Zezima