As soon as I say I’ve come for a soda, Al squares himself up behind the counter, ready for action.  In front of him is a glass-topped freezer for the ice cream tubs.  There are three flavors only: strawberry, chocolate and vanilla.  As with the rest of the shop the flavors are nothing fancy, yet everyone is guaranteed one they like.  On a narrow counter behind him are the tools of his trade:  the shake maker and the ice shaver, various stainless steel containers for mixing floats and malteds, and tall glasses, some tapered at the bottom, others straight, for pouring the thick, foaming result into.  On the scarred and flaking cream-colored wall hangs a black felt board with red plastic letters stuck in it, crookedly listing the offerings:  phosphates, malts, shakes, floats and sundaes.  There’s enough room to list various syrup flavors, too.

Al plants his hands firmly on the ice cream freezer, eager to get going and perhaps using the freezer for a little support at the same time.   He eyes me expectantly, bushy grey brows waggling.  Even if you’re a regular, which I am, Al always allows that just this once you might surprise him. (more…)

When I push open the glass-paned door to the soda fountain, a hanging bell tinkles a discreet invitation to stay awhile. It jingles again as the door clicks shut, leaving the billowing skiffs of dust that were accompanying me to blow on down the sidewalk in the searing dry breeze.

It’s as if I’ve stepped onto a movie set of 1950s small town America. But this is my town and it’s the 21st century. Inside the long, narrow shop it’s warm enough to inspire thoughts of thirst, but cool enough to be calmed by dust motes slowly rising and falling in front of the smudged street window. A wood bench, thoughtfully positioned with its back to the glare, is empty of visitors. From somewhere I can’t place, a radio turned down low twangs out country tunes. Outside, the sputtering rumble of diesel pickups slowly cruising Main Street on this sultry summer day, recedes. (more…)

Even though I’ve lived on this ranch for 12 years, I am still surprised nearly daily by what I see.  Today it was the arrival of a late hawk.  He’d clearly been casing the joint, because he perched on a tree right next to the house, overlooking the area where chipmunks have been scurrying about for months, stuffing their cheeks with seeds and rushing off to bury them somewhere safe for the winter.  If ever there were an easy place to catch oneself a nice, juicy rodent snack, the front of our house is it.

Go south, young hawk!