Summer nights meant Dairy Queen in Rutherford. Everything and everywhere was sweltering, except one place with a red roof and gleaming lights beaming out into the sultry night. Park Avenue, the main drag in my tiny hometown of 20,000, almost completely shut down after 8 pm, but not DQ. It lit up, and people of all ages gravitated toward ice cream heaven.
My sister, brother and I were no different. We would walk or drive down to get a root beer float, Blizzard, or dipped cone, and as we got closer, we could see the line. On an August night, there could be two lines of ten outside the two windows that opened up to the very-cool interior of our destination. One might wait 20 minutes for their goal, but it was worth it. Life slowed down a little when you finally got that delicious dessert in your sweaty hands.
We would take our treats to the car, if we drove, and sit on the hood, basking in the good life. Every lick or sip seemed to bring you one step closer to paradise, and I used to wish my milkshake could be bottom-less. Alas, I would finish it much, much too quickly. I would end up watching my sister still working on her ice cream, envious, frustrated and determined to eat slower next time.