It seemed so large back then in our railroad apartment’s kitchen. But it was so very important. It stood near the back door of the apartment which was sealed with layers of paint containing the dreaded lead of later year’s discovery. It was an important item and didn’t excite the electric meter in order to be useful.

Mother’s small hands would open and shut the door as needed to bring out  and put in the cool goodies that were kept therein. My most vivid memory was of the man who sold the ice. On a warm summer’s day we could hear him coming down the street, his voice loud, his message short: ice! Ice! ICE! 50 cents would purchase enough ice to last us for a good number of days. It was this strange thing, this ice, that made the icebox work so well. He must have been a very strong man to do such a job. Perhaps there are no men who would be willing to do this job today, but it seemed to me that this man was an ordained iceman. Mother would stick her head out of our fourth floor window and let him know that it was time for us to buy ice. How much? There were various sizes, but I remember the huge block that was only 50 cents! Our icebox could take no larger size. He heard her voice and  stopped his truck. Now began the hard part of his job. In the back of the truck were blocks of ice wrapped in burlap and whatever other wonders kept that ice from melting before he got back to the icehouse. He would take a square of burlap and place it on his broad shoulder. Then he would use the ice hooks that looked like giant tongs or a long giant hook with sharp ends and hoist a 50 cent-sized block through the air. It would land miraculously on the bag on  his shoulder. His knees didn’t even buckle! But his job was not over. He had to climb four flights of stairs to our apartment and deposit that block into the cavity intended for it. He collected his money and went back down those stairs to call once again…ice! Ice! ICE!