My uncle was an iceman. In the outside laundry there was an old ice chest, with wood so cracked with age, that to tough it was to promptly gain a splinter, followed by tears. Running to my grandmother for comfort and being fussed over, until a needle was scalded, and the offending splinter extracted, and a kiss given, to 'make it all better'.
Summer was best. To hear the side gate open. Not many used it, so it was associated with my uncle. He would be there, such a big man, I would look up, and up, and up at him. But there, on one side would be this huge lump of glistening ice, held firmly in an iron clamp, rusted with age. The ice had magic, like a giant crystal, so clear and sparkling.
In our sweltering heat of a century plus, I would beg for some ice.
As the ice was intended for the cooler, every piece was precious. Finally permission was given. I would race into my bedroom, tugging open my 'hankie' drawer. Only a freshly ironed cotton handkerchief would do! Running outside to see my uncle chipping off a corner of the huge ice block. I'd shake out the handkerchief from its folds and carefully place the ice inside, gathering the corners up over the treasured chunk. Then, grasping the corners, and with the fabric uppermost, I would suck on the icy treat.
It was long ago, but the childhood sensations remain.
1954?
Image is 'borrowed' as a reference photo from the internet. The ice chunk was much bigger - carried down by his side. He didn't wear a uniform. If any objections to the photo use. Please contact. Thanks.
