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.

The fog is lifting

My father died in late September, two weeks before what would have been my parents' 50^th wedding anniversary.

When I was a child, my dad was the mostly silent presence in the recliner at the end of the room every evening. He was the keeper of the belt that was occasionally threatened, but rarely used. He was the builder of stilts, the cranker of ice cream, the by-hand cracker of walnuts, the ultimate master of the pocket knife, who sharpened his square pencils without fear or hesitation.

When he did speak, it was because he had something important to contribute. He didn't spend words on idle chit chat. He kept watch over me while I watched him build cabinets and houses, guiding my hand on the hammer when I decided he needed a six-year-old's help. He sat behind each of his grandchildren on the lawn tractor so that they could drive it. For hours. Even when the grass didn't need to be mowed.

A couple of years ago, he was diagnosed with depression. The antidepressant he was prescribed brought out a father I had never known. This dad cracked jokes, snuck up on mom for stealth hugs, and sat with me on the porch for hours talking about life. This was dad projected in full color and surround sound. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

I am grateful that I had a chance to get to know him better, that we had time to watch deer nibble on fallen pears while we talked about the world. I am grateful that I had a chance to see the mischievous glint that always resided in his eyes brought to full expression.

We knew his death was coming, but I wasn't ready.

I had grieved before for more distant family members, but I was in no way prepared for the intensity of my anticipatory grief as his illness reached its last stages. Nor did I expect the lingering sadness that has clouded my days since his actual death.

I had always thought that grief was something that hit hard, then steadily faded, leaving one able to remember the loved one without such an intense feeling of loss. It certainly hasn't been a steady process for me. It's taking so much longer than I ever expected, and the feelings crest and crash like waves.

I still go about my life. I work. I play. I spend too much time on the computer.

It's just that all these things take place a a slight remove. There is a feeling of distance, a detachment from daily routine. It's like watching my life happen through a dense fog.

Some things are beginning to register with greater intensity: the sharp smell of a freshly picked lemon, the comforting warmth of a throw blanket on a chilly evening, the sound of shared laughter.

I feel like I am waking from a deep sleep, or coming home from a long journey. These small joys are reminders that somewhere the sun still shines, that birds still sing, and that the fog will lift eventually.