Dear Ice Cream Screamers:

It didn’t happen very often. Driving east on Center Street in Omaha on the way home, every once in a while my dad would take the right turn just past the entrance to the Bohemian National Cemetery, and we were there: Dairy Queen! Usually we drove right past, all that creamy deliciousness completely ignored—my sister’s Mr. Misty, my brother’s chocolate malt, my other brother’s hot fudge sundae, my other sister’s Dilly Bar or dipped cone, my mother’s beloved Peanut Buster Parfait, my Buster Bar (a Peanut Buster Parfait on a stick) and my father’s small plain cone—all zipped past us in a wave of silent disappointment.