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Summertime in the 50’s and 60’s brings back a flood of favorite memories.  We looked forward each summer to “The Paces Dairy Queen Man”. We stood in the middle of 4th West and 1st South with our nickels and dimes clasped firmly in our little fists, hoping to catch a glimpse of that oh so familiar truck.  We couldn’t wait to part with the change our mother’s had given us moments earlier.

At last the faint sound of the music, like an old organ grinder with bells, kinda warped as a kid’s toy running down on batteries.  Once our keen ears picked up the sounds getting closer, we scrambled to be first in line.  My baby brother Alan would cry and threaten to tell mom if we didn’t let him first in line.  We pushed and shoved and found our place, it was all part of the ritual.

Once the truck was within our sights, it would only be a few moments before we would be licking away in Ice Cream Heaven.  We shouted and screamed for him to STOP.  Each time he visited our neighborhood we lived in fear he would not see or hear us (only if he was blind and deaf).

The front of the truck was bright red and the back was white and looked like a giant refrigerator.  Bright blue and white striped fringe and awnings were part of the decor.  The words “Pace’s Dairy Ann” were boldly stamped on the side.  I know what you are thinking – why do you call him the “Dairy Queen Man?”, if he was clearly the “Dairy Ann Man”. We didn’t like the name so we always called him what we wanted.

1957 Paces Truck
                     1957 Paces Truck

The big red, white and blue truck was magical to me.  I was fascinated it had no doors on either side.  I worried sometimes our “Dairy Queen Man” might just fall out onto the pavement.  He would slide out from behind the steering wheel and immediately go to the back of the truck where the huge freezer door with the bright silver hinges opened up to reveal a wondrous array of ice cream delights.  If you were tall enough you could actually peek into the freezer and catch a glimpse of the wire racks filled with enough ice cream to feed every kid in Kaysville.

In my memory I can’t visualize the face of the “Dairy Queen Man”. He appeared to look a lot like The Good Humor Man. Dressed all in white, with shiny black shoes and a little black bow tie.  On his head he wore a hat that looked like the kind soda jerks used to wear.  The most impressive part of his uniform was the bright silver coin changer he wore around his waist.  It wouldn’t be long before our money disappeared into the round cylinders never to be seen again.

A lot of conversation centered around our selection of frozen delights.  “What are you getting Vicky Lynn?” She would say “I don’t know what are you going to get?”  Vicky Lynn’s mom always gave her more money to spend than we got, so I would always be jealous of that.  So much to choose from: The Space Bar – vanilla ice cream with chocolate coating, The Astro Pop – fruit flavored popsicles all on one stick, The Yippee Cup – chocolate malted ice cream dipped in nuts and chocolate.  My personal favorite, The Jet Bar – chocolate ice cream with chocolate coating, dipped in Rice Krispies.

Once the treats were in our hot little hands, it was time to retreat under the shade of the big tree in our front yard.  All of the local neighborhood kids were there: me, my brothers Steven, Brent, Alan, Vicky Lynn and Utahna Hatch, Ronnie Crouch (my childhood heart throb), Carol Gale, Georgina Hyde, George A. Bremmer, Lynn Blood, Gwen Hutchings, and Kenny Hansen.


Yes I saved a Jet Bar Wrapper

We laughed, told jokes and teased each other while licking away at our ice cream.  Those were the days.  Little did I know how much I would miss them years later.  Several years ago I savored a Jet Bar under the shade of a tree, but it wasn’t the same.  Last year I went to Pace’s and they said they no longer made Jet Bars.  I sighed and walked away with nothing.


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When you grow up in a small town like Kaysville, Utah in the 1950’s and 60’s having your very own Potato Chip Factory in the neighborhood is a huge deal.

Sometimes in the early morning, if you went outside on our front porch and looked directly east, you would be able to see the huge white puffy clouds of smoke that filled the air.  That meant the little chip makers were hard at work making those wonderful potato chips.  The unmistakable smell of potatoes and oil that filled the air was yummy to say the least.  It’s the same whiff you get when you first open a fresh bag of chips and the air hits them for the very first time.  It wouldn’t be long before I was hounding mom to take me up to Bowman’s Market for our very own bag.  Knowing the chips you’re eating with your bologna sandwich were actually made just a few blocks up the street was quite thrilling.

Each year at Kaysville Elementary, we would go on a field trip to tour the Clover Club Potato Chip Factory.  The classroom would be buzzing with “chip talk” for days before the actual event.  The teachers would write all of the rules for the long walk (actually only 1 block away) on the blackboard.  We would either have to line up boy, girl, alphabetically, or the teachers would choose partners for us.  I always feared being stuck with ____, who smelled like he just pooped his pants, or ____ who everyone on the playground knew had the worst case of “Cooties” in the world.  Fear gripped me as the teachers decided our fate.

When the big day finally arrived, we were beside ourselves with delight.  We had trouble curbing our enthusiasm and the teachers had to threaten us with the old “we won’t be going if you don’t be quiet routine” or “if you don’t settle down we will have to call in our Principal Mr. Rampton to come and have a talk with you.”  We knew in the long run these were idle threats.  The room mothers arrived and tried their best to keep us under control explaining over and over the “don’t touch ANYTHING rule” as if we were actually listening.

At the head of the line would be John Sanders, son of Hod and Clover Sanders, makers of the magic chips.  Having John in our class was like having your own celebrity.  We never tired of hearing his endless knowledge of elaborate details of the inside workings of the the factory.


When finally inside, they showed us how they cooked the chips and we watched in awe as the conveyor belts overflowing with freshly made golden chips took their long ride throughout the building, eventually filling the ever so familiar read and green bags to the brim with those tasty chips.  The workers were dressed usually in white, at the top of the front pocket carefully embroidered in bright red cursive letters were the words “Clover Club”.  Some of them wore funny paper shower caps. It seems silly now, but there was a time way back when I dreamed that someday I too might be wearing one of those white coats, being a proud employee of Clover Club.


At the end of our tour each one of us would be handed our own mini bag of chips to eat.  I always thought that was so very cool.  I tried to save mine as long as I could so I could show and brag to my brothers about my big adventure. I flaunted my bag of chips in front of them, taking great delight in going somewhere my brother’s didn’t get to go that day.