We now live in the age of communication, or so everyone tells me. Of course there are cellphones, iPhones, Apple watches ... on and on it goes in leading the communication revolution.

So I walk in my house last night and my 15-year-old daughter is having a lively conversation with her mother on the cellphone. I casually said, “Are you really talking to your mother on the phone while she is upstairs in the bedroom?”

She looked at me and said, “Is she upstairs? I thought she was staying out of town tonight and was in a motel room.”

So much for enhanced communication. I actually think we may be becoming the most uninformed informed generation in the history of the world. I long for days past when there was no communication but everybody communicated.

While longing for the past, my hometown of Dawson celebrated the past returning with the opening of a new Dairy Queen on Tuesday. I doubt the invasion of D-Day had as many vehicles as were trying to get in and buy whatever they craved from Dairy Queen. Somebody should have told the folks in Dawson that it would be open again on Wednesday and maybe even the rest of the week if things went OK.

I grew up with Dairy Queen in Dawson. It was the hang-out for teenagers and young college kids. One day it just up and closed. I don’t know exactly when, and I don’t know exactly why, but I guess it was a good thing because had it not closed, I’d still be riding around in the parking lot and hanging out on Friday night, which is a bit unbecoming for a 50-something-year-old man.

As far as I’m concerned, the Dairy Queen had more fond memories than Studio 51 in New York City. There were fights and lovers’ quarrels and rumors that a girl got on top of it and got naked one time. That one time I was not there. I was never there, wherever there was, when some girl decided to get naked. I was in the bathroom, or home sick that night, or at a forced family reunion when stuff like that happened. I was only there when some drunk fat slob guy got naked and then it took three weeks of intensive therapy to rid my mind of such a thing.

I don’t know if the new Dairy Queen will allow hanging out. Hanging out at Dairy Queen may no longer be in small-town style. Who knows. We used to set up drag races by first meeting at the Dairy Queen, and drink under-age beer and try to convince girls to do things their parents would not approve of. Come to think of it, maybe Dairy Queen better not allow hanging out. But just in case they do, I’m riding through Friday night with the music loud. Please excuse me for a moment; it’s just a memory passing through.

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