I
am writing these anecdotes for all my children and grandchildren, and
especially for Billy who asked how people kept things cold before there were
refrigerators.
My
earliest memory of iceboxes is of the white porcelain, two-door affair we had on
Chauncey Street in Brooklyn, New York. Most of my earliest memories were formed
there, at 324 Chauncey Street. The top level of the ice box, where many
subsequent refrigerators have the freezer compartment, is where the blocks of
ice went. The bottom compartment was where items such as milk, butter, meat,
etc. were stored. Under the icebox was a pan to catch the melting ice. It had
to be emptied daily. The iceman came around in a horse-drawn wagon, and a few
years later he arrived in a motorized truck. He came a couple of times a week
in the summer and maybe once a week in the winter. The amount of ice delivered
depended on the amount of money our mother had on hand for such a luxury. For a
quarter (25 cents), she could buy enough ice to last a day or two or three. In
the summer months, we might need an entire block of ice, which as I remember,
measured 24 inches by 12 inches by maybe another 12 inches.
In
the winter, especially around Thanksgiving and Christmas, our mothers would put
many of the perishable items on the outside windowsill or on the fire escape to keep them cool. (Not everyone was lucky enough to have a fire escape.)
During
the summer months, the iceman would chip away the desired amount of ice for a
housewife, sometimes leaving behind some mouth size chips when he delivered an
order. These chips would never go to waste, as there was always a kid in need
of a piece of ice to suck on.
Around
1950, my parents finally were financially able to buy a refrigerator. It was
powered by gas, and the brand was Serval. It was too big for the kitchen. We
kept our refrigerator in the dining room. I remember that it always was
filled with plenty of milk and food. My father had a good job as a “sheet metal
mechanic” with Union #28. He took a great deal of pride in bringing his pay
home to my mother each week.
© 2013, Patricia Jones
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