Jim, the iceman, became a fixture in our lives after we moved into the 2nd floor apartment. He trekked regularly up our outside wooden stairway, toting a large block of ice which he carried using heavy, black metal tongs. The tongs looked like a pair of lethal, curved-bladed scissors; they bit into the block causing crackles through the ice, but letting Jim easily carry the heavy load by the handle.
In the kitchen, he’d spread a piece of canvas on the floor and set the block on it. Then, using an ice pick, Jim would custom shape and size the chunk to fit the space in our ice box. Ice chips flew, landing on the yellow and green linoleum, to melt into small wet puddles, cold to summer-bare feet. When the weather was hot, Jim always chipped off ice for us to suck on, somehow managing to chip off an icicle shaped piece for each of us.
Jim’s ice pick was from his company, and had the company information stamped on its side. Our ice pick, the one Mom kept in the utility drawer, carried the advertisement for a local tailor. Some ice picks had handles completely made of wood. Jim’s pick had a metal cap which protected it when he used it like an awl, striking the pick with some sort of hammer when the ice was unusually tough or thick. But, however they were made, we were repeatedly cautioned to “Be careful! You can put your eye out with that thing!”
The sized block was hoisted into the ice box to rest on a zinc tray. Did it have a drain? What happened to the melted run-off? I don’t remember. But I do remember the slightly metallic smell when the door was opened. I remember the oak doors, mitered, like careful cabinetry, and I remember the bright brass embossed label, affixed with small nails, which proudly proclaimed the company’s name and location. I remember the sound and solid feel of the silvery metal levers as you swung the door closed with a firm “thunk,” then lifted the handle to “snick” the latch secure.
Sometime that fall, our ice box was replaced by a refrigerator. It was enameled on the outside, cream colored with pale green trim. The rather noisy motor sat on top, looking a bit like Mrs. Reeves's Sunday going to church hat: a tall, round, cake-shaped confection. The doors of the refrigerator closed with lever latch handles, as had the ice box. It made the same satisfying sound when you closed the door. And we still called it “the ice box.”
But Jim, the iceman, didn’t come anymore, and I missed him.
