Now that the weather’s warming up, our local ice cream truck has begun trolling the neighborhood, peddling its delicious wares. Many parents hear the ice cream truck’s musical chimes and immediately clench, bracing themselves for the pleas, whines, and tantrums to follow. Not I. Because I have a creative genius for a husband. Years ago, when our oldest son heard the tinkling melody and asked, “What’s that, Daddy?” my husband responded without missing a beat, “That’s the music truck! Isn’t it cool? It drives around during the summer and plays music for us.” And because our home sits pretty far back from the street, my kids have never actually seen the “music truck.” We’ve lived here for six years, and guess how many times I’ve been pestered for overpriced ice cream? Zero. My mom and sister consider this deception akin to child abuse, but they’re just jealous they didn’t think of it first.
My husband doesn’t read fiction, and he sure as heck doesn’t write it, but maybe he should. He’s pretty good at re-imagining the truth, and isn’t that what great novelists do?