Marina Memories #3: Ice Cubes
Sep. 23rd, 2004 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trishkitIce Cubes
Our family business is a marina. My sister and I spent untold hours there over the years. My memories of my dad are inextricably linked with the Marina. The Marina has been both good and bad for all of us. Every aspect of my life with my dad has been entwined with that place. He’s getting ready to retire in the next couple of years and I’m having a hard time imagining him without it. I think he is too.
One of my first memories (sadly not the last) of putting my foot in my mouth was when I was about 7 or 8. My sister and I were visiting a family friend with our mom and for some reason our hostess asked us how we were coping with our parent’s recent divorce. I merrily chirped: “We see Daddy even more now than when he lived at home” and then wondered at the shocked silence that met my response. Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
But it was true. We spent every Wednesday afternoon, every other weekend and any other time Mom couldn’t get a babysitter with him. This meant tagging along behind him as he worked at a myriad of tasks. In addition to the nautical-type things you’d expect from a marina, we were also a major supplier of ice and Christmas trees (in the appropriate seasons, of course) in the region when I was a kid. Here is the story of my adventures with ice cubes.
A large tin-covered ice house was located next to the main marina building. It was filled with rows and rows of bags of ice cubes and ice blocks. Right up until the 60’s there were many cottages with old fashioned ice boxes instead of electric refrigerators. Large metal tongs would be used to insert a 10 lb block of ice into a compartment of an insulated wooden cabinet. The ice would keep the perishable food in the adjoining compartment cool for days at a time. By the time I came around in the 70’s, there was little demand for door-to-door ice block delivery in the town. Those few cottagers who wanted block ice had their own vehicles and would drive to the Marina themselves. The real money was in ice cubes.
In the summer three or four trucks would be out on the road full time, delivering ice to businesses scattered all over the sleepy highways and byways of cottage country. My dad eagerly took to the road on the weekends whenever he could, glad to get away from the hustle and bustle of the Marina. He loved driving and declared that he had always wanted to be a trucker (yes indeed, the 70’s were in full swing). Nothing made him happier than to spend the day on the road with the radio blaring country music, unless it was spending the day on the road with his daughters (with the radio blaring country music). He took great delight in teaching us about “the important things in life”, and would tell us all kinds of stories about the towns and businesses we visited. We were perfectly content to sit in the cab of the truck and watch the world go by as we sped down unpaved backroads on the way to our next customer. Our clients were mainly seasonal businesses scattered up and down the shores of Georgian Bay. Many of these businesses were family-run and had been dealing with us for decades.
Once we were 11 or 12 we’d go out on the road with drivers other than our dad, but it was just the three of us in the early years. Even as young children we could be of use. In fact, the other drivers were jealous, because we could fit into the small side door of the refrigerated trucks (and because they didn't think they could get away with putting their 8 years olds to work). Most of the places we visited were little more than unwinterized wooden buildings, so they didn’t have loading ramps. This meant that the ice had to be taken out bag by bag and put into their freezers. It was most convenient to reach into the 2’ X 2’ door on the side of the freezer compartment (if you were tall, that is) and toss the bag to your helper standing by the freezer. Once all of the ice within reach had been taken, you would have to go in the back and rearrange the flats, which was time-consuming. This is where my sister and I came in. Dad would help us to clamber up the side and into the door and we could toss him the bags from the interior of the truck. The bags of ice were sometimes frozen solid, so you had to give them a good crack on the floor before tossing them out, or else it would have hurt the catcher. Dad kept count under his breath as he went and would tell us when to stop.
It was disorienting to emerge from the dark freezer into the blinding light and suffocating heat of a typical summer day. It only took about 15 minutes per stop, but your hands would be cold anyways (no one ever wore gloves, I have no idea why). We would stand outside warming up while Dad reported to the owner. Sometimes we would have to be on display, so we’d accompany him into the store. Even our light footsteps would sound loud on the creaky wooden floors as we passed by dusty shelves filled with tacky souvenirs in order to allow some dimly-remembered proprietor to exclaim over how much we had grown. We much preferred to wait outside.
By the late 80’s the ice business had dwindled. Jack, the crazy business partner, had always been in charge of the ice, but he was becoming more and more erratic and unreliable. Boat sales were booming, Dad didn’t have the time, the ice trucks were getting old and we needed more space to accommodate the larger boats. The decision was made to sell of the ice business. The ice house was torn down in 1988 during our final year of high school and a huge new shop was built in its place. I helped to paint the walls of the shop and it seemed so shiny and new and modern. Ice seemed so passé when they were making boats in designer colours with “European styling”.
Most people think that progress means leaving the old ways behind, but my dad has always taken great care to remember the past. The walls of the store are lined with photos that chronicle the evolution of the Marina, and he still has a set of ice tongs and an ice box. As for me, I sometimes think about the ice business when I walk into the new shop and stand in the location of the old ice house. And classic country songs will instantly transport me back to those happy summer days spent in the truck with my dad.
Our family business is a marina. My sister and I spent untold hours there over the years. My memories of my dad are inextricably linked with the Marina. The Marina has been both good and bad for all of us. Every aspect of my life with my dad has been entwined with that place. He’s getting ready to retire in the next couple of years and I’m having a hard time imagining him without it. I think he is too.
One of my first memories (sadly not the last) of putting my foot in my mouth was when I was about 7 or 8. My sister and I were visiting a family friend with our mom and for some reason our hostess asked us how we were coping with our parent’s recent divorce. I merrily chirped: “We see Daddy even more now than when he lived at home” and then wondered at the shocked silence that met my response. Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
But it was true. We spent every Wednesday afternoon, every other weekend and any other time Mom couldn’t get a babysitter with him. This meant tagging along behind him as he worked at a myriad of tasks. In addition to the nautical-type things you’d expect from a marina, we were also a major supplier of ice and Christmas trees (in the appropriate seasons, of course) in the region when I was a kid. Here is the story of my adventures with ice cubes.
A large tin-covered ice house was located next to the main marina building. It was filled with rows and rows of bags of ice cubes and ice blocks. Right up until the 60’s there were many cottages with old fashioned ice boxes instead of electric refrigerators. Large metal tongs would be used to insert a 10 lb block of ice into a compartment of an insulated wooden cabinet. The ice would keep the perishable food in the adjoining compartment cool for days at a time. By the time I came around in the 70’s, there was little demand for door-to-door ice block delivery in the town. Those few cottagers who wanted block ice had their own vehicles and would drive to the Marina themselves. The real money was in ice cubes.
In the summer three or four trucks would be out on the road full time, delivering ice to businesses scattered all over the sleepy highways and byways of cottage country. My dad eagerly took to the road on the weekends whenever he could, glad to get away from the hustle and bustle of the Marina. He loved driving and declared that he had always wanted to be a trucker (yes indeed, the 70’s were in full swing). Nothing made him happier than to spend the day on the road with the radio blaring country music, unless it was spending the day on the road with his daughters (with the radio blaring country music). He took great delight in teaching us about “the important things in life”, and would tell us all kinds of stories about the towns and businesses we visited. We were perfectly content to sit in the cab of the truck and watch the world go by as we sped down unpaved backroads on the way to our next customer. Our clients were mainly seasonal businesses scattered up and down the shores of Georgian Bay. Many of these businesses were family-run and had been dealing with us for decades.
Once we were 11 or 12 we’d go out on the road with drivers other than our dad, but it was just the three of us in the early years. Even as young children we could be of use. In fact, the other drivers were jealous, because we could fit into the small side door of the refrigerated trucks (and because they didn't think they could get away with putting their 8 years olds to work). Most of the places we visited were little more than unwinterized wooden buildings, so they didn’t have loading ramps. This meant that the ice had to be taken out bag by bag and put into their freezers. It was most convenient to reach into the 2’ X 2’ door on the side of the freezer compartment (if you were tall, that is) and toss the bag to your helper standing by the freezer. Once all of the ice within reach had been taken, you would have to go in the back and rearrange the flats, which was time-consuming. This is where my sister and I came in. Dad would help us to clamber up the side and into the door and we could toss him the bags from the interior of the truck. The bags of ice were sometimes frozen solid, so you had to give them a good crack on the floor before tossing them out, or else it would have hurt the catcher. Dad kept count under his breath as he went and would tell us when to stop.
It was disorienting to emerge from the dark freezer into the blinding light and suffocating heat of a typical summer day. It only took about 15 minutes per stop, but your hands would be cold anyways (no one ever wore gloves, I have no idea why). We would stand outside warming up while Dad reported to the owner. Sometimes we would have to be on display, so we’d accompany him into the store. Even our light footsteps would sound loud on the creaky wooden floors as we passed by dusty shelves filled with tacky souvenirs in order to allow some dimly-remembered proprietor to exclaim over how much we had grown. We much preferred to wait outside.
By the late 80’s the ice business had dwindled. Jack, the crazy business partner, had always been in charge of the ice, but he was becoming more and more erratic and unreliable. Boat sales were booming, Dad didn’t have the time, the ice trucks were getting old and we needed more space to accommodate the larger boats. The decision was made to sell of the ice business. The ice house was torn down in 1988 during our final year of high school and a huge new shop was built in its place. I helped to paint the walls of the shop and it seemed so shiny and new and modern. Ice seemed so passé when they were making boats in designer colours with “European styling”.
Most people think that progress means leaving the old ways behind, but my dad has always taken great care to remember the past. The walls of the store are lined with photos that chronicle the evolution of the Marina, and he still has a set of ice tongs and an ice box. As for me, I sometimes think about the ice business when I walk into the new shop and stand in the location of the old ice house. And classic country songs will instantly transport me back to those happy summer days spent in the truck with my dad.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 06:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 07:16 am (UTC)The bags were plastic. And very slippery.
Glad you think it's interesting, since it was your random worm comment that started all of this!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 07:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 08:51 am (UTC)I loved being on the road so much. It wouldn't be the same if you had to do it in a city, but where we were, you'd drive for miles along quiet roads with beautiful scenery.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 04:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 05:32 pm (UTC)The refrigerated trucks were basically transport trucks, but the trailer part was about half the size of what you usually see (I don't know what size that is, 5 ton I think). We had two of them. Red cabs with silver metal trailers. The name of the marina and the ice cube dude were painted on the trailer (I think the ice cube dude was called "Billy Cube" or something like that, I'll have to ask Dad. And the ice cube dude was the logo of the ice supplier, not us). The rest of the trucks were all half-ton pickups. In the summer we had commercial freezers that would be put in the back of 2 or 3 for ice deliveries. In later years ice and boat deliveries would be combined, but initially the ice and the boat departments had separate staff and equipment. The big trucks were used for the deliveries that were farther afield. The rest of the trucks were blue with the company name painted on the sides. The colour schemes varied over the years, but blue was always prominent. The new shop that took the place of the ice house was covered in bright blue aluminum siding as well.
All trucks were Fords. There is no other brand.
It's weird writing all of this stuff and seeing how spotty my memory is. Later I will corroborate the stories with Dad, but for now it's I just want to record my own impressions.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 06:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-24 07:14 pm (UTC)*blushes*
I'm glad you are enjoying them. I've been spending so much time trying to write fiction, and then this stuff just comes rushing out really easily.
In my family we call it verbal diarrhea. Although I guess that's not quite right since I'm writing it out, but you get the idea.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-25 09:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-25 05:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-25 07:16 pm (UTC)