Iconic goodbye
Obituaries are published after the fact. But the end of a commercial enterprise is often announced prior. I saw the sad announcement early this week: After 65 years, the Polar Freeze Drive-In in Walnut Ridge will close its doors Saturday.
The news came like a shadow, dark and silent. It really can’t be called a surprise—longtime owner Jack Allison died several years ago, and his wife Velma has certainly earned the right to slow down. A retiring manager, Pat Murphy, has been there since I was in college.
But it still surprised me, because I wasn’t ready.
Time and routine often lull us into forgetting that change is the only constant. The inevitable reminders, as they occur, strike chords of lamentation, loss and regret over taking too much for granted.
Since I won’t be back in town until Sunday, I’ll never taste another
Polar Freeze sandwich or savor another Polar Freeze shake. I can’t even specifically remember the last time we ate there. And that fuzzy memory rubbing against the hard closing date causes a pang.
I was a kid when I first came to know the Polar Freeze in the summer before seventh grade. My house was less than three blocks away, and in addition to the great pit barbecue my parents liked, the Polar Freeze had a large ice cream section.
In small towns, independent restaurants aren’t just a food-service category. They’re more than places to eat. When done properly, local eateries become pieces of life. The Polar Freeze epitomized such vital significance.
It was a must-stop when dating. A must-do for takeout. A must-have for homecomings of former residents.
As a junior high kid, the Polar Freeze was cool because it had a jukebox. As a car-driving sophomore in high school, its corner location and large parking lot became a key point on the “riding around” circuit. As a member of sports teams, the Polar Freeze was perfect for both pre-game protein and post-game celebration (or consolation).
Because I was introduced to the Polar Freeze as a child, I remember the child-like association that matched people with their professions. Just as my childhood self imagined my teachers had all been born into their classroom roles, I couldn’t imagine Mr. Jack and Mrs. Velma having any other purpose on Earth except to run the Polar Freeze.
Facebook, for all its failings, is peerless as a facilitator for memory-lane reconnections, and this week there’ve been a flurry of Polar Freeze posts.
Like any institution operating for six-and-a-half decades in a small town, the Polar Freeze had generations of employees. In a post about people who worked there (“This’ll be fun!” was the title), assorted comments mention moms and later their daughters or sons handing out the white sacks full of Polar Freeze tasties. More than 100 other comments name names and relate anecdotes and reminiscences.
Another post asked for favorite orders; more than 50 people responded. Mine was always a double cheeseburger with mayo and pickle only.
Several folks posted farewell visits and reunion gatherings this week that recall old-stomping-ground and coming-of-age stories. Some remember it as a place their grandparents took them, or the site of a first date. The common-thread comment is the Polar Freeze’s enduring cultural prominence.
It connected with our community in so many meaningful ways that fast-food chains never can or will. The Polar Freeze is embedded in my life story, and that’s why it’s hard to watch it go. Harder to let it go.
Iam able to manage a small gleam of nostalgic joy from this glum moment: the cherished experience of retreading identical paths now that I once motored with the liberation of a brand-new auto license at 16.
Meshing distant memories with the current moment—in the same physical space—is a mixture of déjà vu, sentimentality, wistful wonder and stark reality.
So many years have lapsed between the first and last time I pulled into the Polar Free drive-through, yet I still passed under the same aluminum awning. Ordered through the same window. Thanks to the magic of Sirius XM, the same songs played on my radio.
The old popular routes around town, at their core, are as graven as the constellations. Other landmarks (the theater, the department store, the bowling alley) vanished long ago. But the paths remain, and in retracing them decades of difference are merged in my soul—the only thing aging doesn’t deteriorate.
I remember 16 because part of me is still 16, thrilled to be cruising the Polar Freeze. Part of me is still 30, bringing Polar Freeze home to my growing family. Part of me, even now, is still running Polar Freeze over to my late Granny’s.
The pendulum swings, time marches on. We never step into the same river or the same eddy of existence twice. The axioms of change are many, the road maps often predictable; but moments of actualization still carry a jolt.
Goodbye comes from “God be with ye.” That’s my wish for the Allison family, and the entire extended clan who also loved the Polar Freeze.