*

I should have seen it coming.

But my brain, mouth, and stomach were frozen on The Chocolate Malt.

Whitey’s Malts obligated Capital Letters.

And a gold star.

Unlike Dairy Queen’s upside-down performance of its blizzards, Whitey’s malt masters needed no tomfoolery.

The Culver’s Concrete Mixer? Truth in advertising.

At every Whitey’s, the customer witnessed this behind-the-counter miracle.

After scooping the ice cream into the metal-topped paper container, the teenage artisan pumped once at the chocolate station; and caressed the vessel onto the agitator. No milk was added.

Strong hands maneuvered to the perfect spot before flipping the start button. There were five seconds of turbulence before the first pause. More ice cream was layered in. Further grinding was required until the torment ended. The receptacle was placed on the counter. You’ve already paid.

A stand-at-attention straw and spoon handle awaited.

I’ve been quaffing Whitey’s Malts for 50 years and have never understood the straw. Why is it there?

It’s Ed McMahon to Johnny Carson.

Mr. Green Jeans to Captain Kangaroo.

A sidekick, but not necessary.

The thought of a Whitey’s Chocolate Malt ignited my hippocampus.

Distant memories overwhelm thought.

Mom, dad, my brothers Peter and Pat. 1950s Sunday lunches at the Iowana Farms Dairy in Bettendorf, Iowa. Under the Memorial Bridge.

Where we ate the Silver Star Chocolate Malt.

But back to the then present.

We turned off Highway 61 into the familiar parking lot.

*

It was February 2015.

I’m driving; Rebecca’s shotgun.

We’d been on the road for three hours.

Lunchtime.

The van passengers were five Luther College students.

The destination was Bloomington, Illinois, where the students would present papers at a Human Rights conference hosted by Illinois Wesleyan University.

I volunteered to chaperone because my hometown, Davenport, Iowa, was halfway between Decorah and Bloomington.

I had four Whitey’s to choose from as we motored through the Quad Cities, three in Davenport and one in Moline, Illinois.

I selected Davenport’s 53rd street location because, after ice cream, we could detour past my childhood home.

“We’re finally here,” I announced as I navigated the van toward nirvana. You can see our view from this photo.

The students came alive

Sans earbuds, books, and sleep.

*

The barrage hit Rebecca and me full force.

I don’t believe it.

It’s 2015.

Whitey’s, seriously?

Oh my God

How could they name it Whitey’s?

Rebecca and I looked at each other, dumbfounded, for a moment.

I explained the Whitey’s name came from the original owner, who was nicknamed Whitey, because of his blond hair. When he sold the business in the 1950s, the new owners kept the well-known name,

I thought about telling my young friends about my dad’s favorite gas station, Whitey’s Standard Oil. Or my favorite childhood baseball pitcher, Whitey Ford.

But I’ve learned when to fold with college students.

They listened politely.

And eased into the Subway next door.

I could have told them of my high school homecoming date at the most famous 1960s Quad City restaurant.

The Plantation.

But I didn’t.

I had a Chocolate Malt to help me.

Think.