Here He Comes!

1934

MY BROTHERS and I sat on the curb in front of our house in west Los Angeles, waiting for the iceman.

Ted kept us informed with the names of the cars going by; Bob and Willard knew some of them, too.

“There goes a Ford Model A with a rumble seat.”

“There’s a Model A sedan.”

“And a 1932 Chevy.”

“And a snazzy 1934 Ford V-8.”

At last, the iceman’s truck slowly came up the street and approached our block.

“The iceman is coming! The iceman is coming!” we yelled.

COOL CROWD. “The Thomas kids, with neighbor dog ‘Poochie,’ in 1936, were, from left, Ted; Bob; me; and Willard,”says author. “Above is our house in L.A.”

All of the neighborhood kids ran out and stood on our curbs, waiting for the iceman to reach our block. But first, I ran into our Purdue Avenue house for a rag to hold my ice.

The iceman stopped in front of our house and looked at the ice card hanging in our living room window. Depending on which corner the color-coded card was hung by, he knew what size cake of ice to bring to our icebox.

He stopped, got out of the truck, walked to the back, slid the door up and threw a long pad over one strong shoulder.

Using huge tongs, he picked up an ice cake—an overgrown ice cube—and carried it on his shoulder to our back door.

“Iceman!” he called, then walked into our house. He opened the door to the ice compartment of our built-in icebox and put the cube in.

Meanwhile, all the children crowded around his truck; when he returned, he could hardly get in.

“May I have some ice?”

“Me, too!”

“I’m next.”

“Wait your turn,” the iceman said calmly.

We did not have refrigerators, so we rarely had ice, except from the iceman. We were not allowed to chip ice from our own cake of ice; it was for keeping food cold.

Our bare feet danced on the hot pavement while we waited. The nice iceman chipped off a little piece for each child.

Daddy said that the iceman bought his own cake of ice so he could share it with the children on his route.

I ran to a shady spot to enjoy my treat. Slurping a hunk of ice on a hot day was pure pleasure and so refreshing.

As the iceman drove away, he left a line of happy children.

In the years ahead, one by one, our neighbors bought refrigerators, and the iceman had fewer and fewer customers.

One day, we watched him drive away for the last time.

His blue, boxy truck got smaller and smaller as it went up the street. It blended in among the houses, buildings, trees and sky and disappeared, marking the end of an era.

Sometimes, we still sat on the curb, waiting and hoping and naming cars, but the iceman never came back.

By Maxine Clark, Selma, California