On a balmy summer Caribbean afternoon, one of those sunny afternoons that begged for nothing to do… after all, school was out until “next” year, the morning obligations … like going to the swimming pool to practice our competition strokes, or biking on an ice cream hunting “adventure” with our friends were over and done with, and lunch out of the way…
It’s early in the afternoon and after downing a midday meal which -by today’s standards- would have been considered “somewhat” unhealthy, there I was sitting lazily on the cool living room floor, by the front window with a book in hand, waiting for an expected visitor to pass by. After all, what else is there to do for an eight-year-old in a non-electronic era?
- “BARQUILLAS... BARQUILLEROOO!! …” A shout that was followed by a sharp whistle, coming from someone we all loved to see, and who came by during the summertime when he knew we were all out of school, and lying in wait for his anticipated, delightful offerings.
What is a “barquilla”, you ask? Well, a barquilla was, simply put, an old-fashioned homemade very thin waffle cone, without the ice cream. And to this day (and there have been many, many days and barquillas since then) those were the “bestest”, thinnest, crunchiest, most delightful “melt-in-your-mouth” barquillas to be had.
But it wasn’t just the barquillas… these were well worth the wait and anticipation… But they came along with a “show” for all of us kids to enjoy. The man was -I remember- of European cut. Probably from northern Spain or perhaps somewhere else in northern Europe; fifty-some, blondish hair, tall for the times (or perhaps from a child’s perspective) and always dressed in a jean shirt and pants, topping his head with a light-colored hat. I remember his smile, which lit up anytime the kids would gather around him and clamor for his barquillas.
On his back, like a backpack, he
carried a round, blue-colored metal cylinder, with a removable top. Inside the
tank were the wonderful barquillas, but it was this top that held our
attention and the possibilities…
On it, there was a painted-in roulette full of numbers going from 1 to 10 and perched on a thin metal rod, right at the center of these numbers, there was a spinner in the form of an arrow.
For 2 cents you would get one spin, for 5 cents there were three possibilities. We would all gather around and, one at a time, challenge the spinner and lady luck. If you paid for one spin, and the number of cones your spin came to rest on was one, he would look at the totally disappointed face of the child and, breaking into a hearty laugh, he would, in his somewhat accented Spanish, tell that child to do a second spin for free… At the end of each turn, he would fish into that tank and come up with the number of cones indicated by the spin. Always with an extra one for “good luck”.
After we had all our turns and were loaded with our barquillas bonanza, he would hoist that tank back up, tip his hat, blow his whistle one more time, and with a great big grin would tell us… “nos vemos la próxima vez” – “We will see each other next time”. He knew we would be waiting for him, no matter when that time was. We would then, after he turned the corner with a last farewell wave and was lost to our eyes, sit on the sidewalk curb or by someone’s front door, and enjoy the fruits of our hard labor.
Did he make money? I don’t think so. I believe he did his rounds to bring joy to all of the kids in the neighborhoods he visited. And that he did; and that same joy could be seen on his face, in his sparkling eyes and in his laugh, as we loaded ourselves with his barquillas, looking forward to slowly eating them. So much so that, some 65 years later, I can still see that smile as he watched each of us spin the arrow, waiting in excitement, anticipating its stop to reveal how many cones we would get.
Loving memories of childhood…
Be Well … Be Back!!!
Final Notes:
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Pray for those who are fighting an illness which may take
them away from their loved ones… Every request is heard, and counts!!
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Any comments please send to rjalcazar@gmail.com
