Save America Now

Dear Friends,

American values are under attack. Even as I write these words, my hands are shaking with patriotic zeal. There was a day - some of us can remember it - when life in Small Town America was tranquil. There was a day when kids could ride their bikes to the library without fear; a day when families actually spoke to one another from front porch to front porch. There was once a day when community values tied us together. I am an optimist at heart, and I tend to shrug off stories of America's best days being behind her. But earlier this week, I experienced something firsthand that has shaken me to my core.

It was Tuesday, and we were packing up the chairs and gear. As we left the baseball park, my son and I walked side by side down the road to the pickup truck. We were parked behind City Hall, next to the fire station. We said goodbye to friends, neighbors, and teammates as we loaded up and headed for home.

"Dad, can we get some ice cream now?" I remembered I owed him a treat for making a great play a couple of games back. It would be good to follow through with that tonight, even though it was almost 10:00; tonight's games weren't ones for the record books.

"Sure. How 'bout Sonic?" I cranked the engine of the beat-up '93 Dodge Dakota. It was the first car I had ever bought and paid for with my own hard-earned dollars. We got it two weeks to the day after we got married. It only had 3 miles on the odometer when we first called it "ours."

"That would be great!" We pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the road. As we crossed the railroad tracks and passed the old downtown area near the High School, I remembered when this used to be the only traffic light in town. We passed a Baptist church on the left, a Methodist church on the right, and another Baptist church on the left. On the right was an empty lot.

"Hey Dad, didn't you used to work there?"

"Yeah, there was a little house and a couple of mobile homes attached to it. I worked for this guy who fixed TVs and VCRs. We didn't have DVD players way back then." My old neighborhood was behind the empty lot. My parents still lived there. We turned left into the local drive-in and parked in the fourth spot. The place was relatively busy, even this late at night.

"Milkshake?"

"Can I have an Oreo Blast?" He was taking advantage of my sentimental mood. Smart kid. I cranked the window down and pushed the Red Button. The response time was impressive.

"Welcome to Sonic! Would you like to try a Value Meal?"

"No, thanks. But I would like to try an Oreo Blast and a medium hot fudge malt with extra malt." I was so bad. It was way past my dinnertime. I had wrestled with the decision all the way from the ballpark. I knew I didn't need any ice cream. I wasn't hungry. I didn't even want it that badly. It was more a crime of opportunity than anything: how could I drive through Sonic and not get a hot fudge malt for myself? Once the words were out of my mouth, the battle was won (or lost) and I immediately began to savor the thought of the thick (but not too thick) cold ice cream juxtaposed with the molten chocolate all woven together with the rejuvenating flavor of powdered Whoppers.

"We don't have malt anymore." My mind didn't immediately register the response.

"Excuse me?"

"We don't have malt anymore. They changed all the menus on Sunday, and They took malt off the menu. Would you like a milkshake instead?"

WE DON'T HAVE MALT ANYMORE?

WE DON'T HAVE MALT ANYMORE?

I could not have been more shocked if I had been told it was illegal to shoot fireworks in the Benton city limits. How can you not have malt anymore? You're the Sonic! That's like KFC telling me they don't have fried chicken anymore! Or the Waffle House saying they don't have waffles anymore. What do you mean, you don't have malt anymore?

"Are you sure you don't have any malt?" I was in denial. Samuel was highly amused. The guy on the other side of the Red Button played it cool.

"I'm sure. No malt."

The ghosts of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and all the Founding Fathers rose up with one accord and shouted in my ear, "What have you people done with our country?" The gargantuan image of Lincoln, forever seated on the throne of justice on the National Mall, shed a quiet tear. Betsy Ross and Susan B. Anthony cried in anguish. My son began an audible snickering which quickly turned to rolling laughter.

"Well, give me a hot fudge milkshake." It was a far, far second-best. But now I had anger to feed as well as gluttony. Sonic. "America's Drive-in" Not any America I know. If I wanted a milkshake, I could have gone to McDonald's, Burger King, or any other of the host of calorie dispensers in the I-30/Reynolds Road metroplex.

"Would you like to try one of our bunt cakes?"

"Does it have malt in it?" Sam was howling. I was stewing. At least I hadn't given my son any new bad words to use.

As we pulled back onto the highway and turned homeward, I began to reflect on the evening's events. How could something like this happen - here, in my hometown? Maybe in Havana, or Pyongyang, or even California - but here, in Bryant, Arkansas - home of the 1988-1989 Girls Basketball Overall State Champions Lady Hornets? I shook my head and silently muttered bits and pieces of the Bill of Rights and the Gettysburg Address.

We crossed the interstate, looped around, and drove further toward home. Home sweet home. Home - a place where a man can malt his own milkshake without fear of government intrusion. Home - where children can stack firewood and pull weeds and feed dogs without anybody's permission or condemnation. Home - where one can post blogs without the worry of anyone ever actually reading it.

I had been absentmindedly sipping my consolation prize while I brooded. Suddenly a wave of panic capped with grief and terror hit me like a gravel truck.

"THEY FORGOT TO PUT ANY HOT FUDGE IN THIS THING!" Plain. Vanilla. Milk. Shake.

Here, dear friends, I end my account. I apologize for offending those of gentle sensibilities. But I do not apologize if I have stirred within your heart the same love for hearth and home that has been stirred in mine. I do not apologize if I have awakened you to the fact that freedom isn't free, and that those things we cherish most today can be suddenly, completely, and shockingly gone tomorrow by the mere whim of some marketing intern at Corporate Headquarters.

Friends, fellow Americans, what can we do to halt the landslide down the slippery slope that threatens our more cherished values? Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm not an agitator. People who know me well will tell you that I really don't have strong convictions about most things. But at least - at the very, very least - we can let our voices be heard. Individually, we might not make much of a difference. But together, we're greater than the sum of our parts. Friends, I urge you to make a simple phone call to the Sonic corporation and implore them to return malt to the Bryant Sonic. Their phone number is 1-866-OK-SONIC (1-866-657-6642). (Clearly, they have anticipated the backlash and have removed the email feedback feature from their website.)

Thank you, and God bless these United States of America.

Your friend,

Jeff McFarland