The Iceman Cometh No More

Summers were endless in the small desert town of my childhood. Probably because they began in April and ended in November.

The days were filled with roller skating, bike riding, tree climbing, dirt clod wars, and - my favorite - swimming at the community pool. You could judge how far the season had progressed by the shade of green my hair had turned. There were games of hide and seek that lingered long past twilight, ending only when our exhausted parents threatened dire consequences.

On special days, our house would be filled with people. There were aunts reaching around each other in the kitchen, chatting as they prepared enough food to feed a small army, and uncles watching television and discussing whatever it was the men talked about. I never stayed long enough to find out. A constant stream of kids were running in and out of the house, hoping for refrigerated Kool-Aid, or at least a moment in the air conditioning, but more often being herded right back out and told to get a drink from the hose and to stop letting in flies.

On exceptional days, we would make ice cream.

I would beg to ride in the back of the truck when dad would go in to town to buy ice. We never used cubes from our freezer or purchased bags from the store. Oh no. We went straight to the ice plant and bought a block of it from the source.

Dad had some red painted heavy-duty cast iron ice tongs that he would use to heft the block into the back of the truck. They were as heavy as the ice. I loved the simple elegance of their function. Once the tips were dug into the block, the weight of the ice as you carried it kept them in position. The real trick was getting them back out again.

At home, the ice went into the sink for chipping. This was my self-assigned job, and I took pride in stabbing the icepick into the block to create pieces of just the right size. These were nestled around the churning cylinder, and layered with rock salt. Once everything was in position, a folded towel was set on top so that the person sitting on the ice cream maker to turn the crank didn't get frostbite in any inconvenient places.

As the youngest, I had the first turn at cranking. When my arm got too tired, I would run in to make more ice chips. These were always needed to replace their brothers that had melted and were now gushing out of the overflow hole.

Anticipation ran high whenever dad finally took over crank duty. We pestered him mercilessly: "Is it done yet?" "Is it too hard to turn?" "What about now?"

Was there ever a better, more longed-for frozen treat than ice cream made by your own effort on a hot summer day? I can't think of any. A spoonful was a tiny miracle melting on the tongue.

Today the ice plant in my home town burned to the ground. A part of my childhood has just passed into the beyond. Thankfully, the memories linger like the taste of melting ice cream.