Shoo-Fly Serenade

Swing open Shoo-Fly’s door and you get a face-full of time travel, daddy-o. Checkerboard floor scuffs under brogues, chrome stool rings shine like hubcaps, and the chalkboard menu riffs a sweet beat of flavors: Rocky Road, Cotton Candy, Pecan Praline. A Blue Bell neon cow beams overhead, casting milk-white halos on the pie case. The whole room fizzes with malt-shop melody and small-town hush.

The scene is equal parts documentary and Valentine — proof that romance doesn’t have to holler when it can hum along at milk-shake tempo.

Center stage: one cool cowboy and his best gal, parked on twin swivel stools, orbiting a single bowl of ice cream the way teenagers once did when Eisenhower was in the White House and Buddy Holly ruled the airwaves. He’s all brim-shaded patience — creased hat, pearl-snap shirt, denim riding low, key ring dangling like a lucky horseshoe from his belt. She’s silver curls and Sunday-school poise, blouse sporting a playful keyhole cutout at the back. Shoulders lean close, forearms brushing, two spoons keeping rhythm in a bowl of vanilla soft enough to whisper secrets.

I duck between candy racks — wax bottles, licorice whips, yo-yo strings — a pocket paparazzo armed with an iPhone instead of a Speed Graphic. Click-click: shutters softer than soda fizz, because moments this mellow don’t cotton to flashbulb fanfare. Light slants in from the front window, bounces off chrome trim, and drapes the couple in a quiet glow that makes time feel like it’s idling in neutral.

No chit-chat from them, just spoon-to-lip, grin-to-grin — a private Morse code tapped out in melted vanilla: Still here, still sweet, still ours. You can almost hear the jukebox drop a 45, some slow-burn number that reminds them of drive-in movies and county-fair midways. Every so often he tilts his hat back to catch her smile from the corner of his eye; she answers with a gentle nudge, the sort kids used to call a “steady” kind of touch.

Outside, Texas sun is cranking its own neon, but in here it’s all dimestore magic. A sign by the register promises Ice-Cold Lemonade & Taffy, Glen Rose, TX; the striping on the counter winks red-and-cream like a ’57 Chevy. The scene is equal parts documentary and Valentine — proof that romance doesn’t have to holler when it can hum along at milk-shake tempo.

So dig this, cats and kittens: should you ever barrel down to Glen Rose, park your wheels outside Shoo-Fly on the town square. Order the Reuben — yeah, it’s the ginchiest — but leave room for a double-dipped scoop. Take a stool, tap the counter twice for luck, and watch love keep cool in the slow-melt hush of a small-town soda fountain. Because long after the neon blinks off and the spoons hit the dishwasher, that quiet duet of shared vanilla still croons like a lonesome Buddy Holly 45 — soft, steady, timeless.

What simple treat instantly transports you to another era?

— Lawrence

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