Closed for the Season

The autumn day was crisp with brilliant sunshine.  I was driving along on my way to Harlan some eleven miles from the trusty farmstead.  Harlan was the closest town with a Dairy Queen.  While most people enjoy their ice cream during the summer, living in south Texas for many years, I think fall and winter should be the time for a cool creamy treat. 

I first noticed something amiss when I pulled into Dairy Queen's parking lot.  There were no cars or trucks.  This is the country and one must own at least one American made truck.  People gawk at us driving something made in a far away place they can't pronounce.  Anyway, the parking lot at Dairy Queen is usually like a demolition derby.  One must pounce on a parking space without ramming the truck you are trying to beat. 

I strolled up to the window.  Yes, I know what you are thinking, window?  You don't go inside?  This is the country and there is no inside.  But there are plastic tables outside you can sit on.  I supposed in the winter you eat in the car with the heater on.  Then came the moment that turned the day to night:

"Closed for the Season"

What?!  What season?  Football Season?  I know these people are crazy about high school football, but couldn't the football players stand a few calories?    I collapsed on a plastic table.  I felt for my pulse.  It was still there but sporadic.  What was I going to do?

My cell phone was out of my purse faster than a gunfighter at the O K Corral.  "Doug," I cried, "Dairy Queen is closed for some mysterious season!"

The ever calm Doug made some noise about the winter season.  Winter!  This was October.  It was fall.  Winter didn't start until December 21st.  I was now on a mission.

Denison was only 27 miles from Harlan.  They have a Dairy Queen.  No more demolition driving, now I was a Hobby car racer.   Twenty one minutes later I pulled into Denison's Dairy Queen only to see:  "Closed for the Season."  Ahhh!!

On to Carroll, only 27.4 miles away.  They have an A & W.  That would do too.  A root beer float would hit the spot. Driving with my eyes glued to the road and my foot rooted to the floor board, I whipped into the A & W parking lot.  I slammed on the brakes as my eyes bulged out of my head:  "Closed for the Season" was plastered to their front window.  Great, now I have whiplash and an empty ice cream stomach.

It took me 91 minutes to drive the 42 miles back to my house.  I had to pull over six times to wipe the moisture from my eyes.  The farm house is great, the countryside is beautiful, the people are genuinely kind, but no soft serve ice cream in the winter time is a deal breaker.  We will have to move.

My annoyingly calm husband didn't seemed phased by the "closed for the season" crisis.  "I need to go to town for gas, come with me," he pleaded.  Town is Irwin five miles away.  They have a gas station, but no ice cream shop.  I supposed that was safe.  I didn't have to see any "closed for the season" signs.

I tied a scarf around my head, arranged a blanket over my legs and closed my eyes for the ride into town.  In Irwin the twenty-first century has not evolved.  One must go inside to pay for gas.  I sat in the truck feeling sorry for myself while Doug went in to pay.

Seconds later, he bounded outside, threw open my door and demanded I come inside.  Doug never demands anything.  So I let him help me out of the truck and into the gas station/mini-mart/Godfather's Pizza store.  He pulled me over to the soda fountain.  "Look," he demanded with great joy.  I didn't want a soda, I don't even like soda.  As I started to stomp away, I saw it out of the corner of my eye.  A soft serve ice cream maker.  And there wasn't even a sign hanging on it that said "closed for the season."

This is my town.  I love it.  I will live here in happiness forever!