The Ice Man Cometh for Me and for Thee

It was the ice on the truck that beckoned to me when I was five-years-old and playing on the one-way street near my home in North Philadelphia.

At one time, delivery men hauled large blocks of ice in trucks for you to deposit them in the “ice box,’ which was the forerunner of the refrigerator. Ask your grandparents about. Every family had one, or they used cold storage areas cut out of the ground or a hill.

As a city boy, I grew up in working class area called Brewerytown, I wanted to be just like the older kids who got chunks of ice from the trucks. They’d hold them for what seems like hours, slurping away at the cool refreshment a nice chunk of ice could offer them on a hot day!

I remember climbing onto the back of a truck that day. Reaching in, I tried to grab some of that cold nourishment, when, to my surprise, I next woke up in a hospital bed miles away where someone told me I was being treated for a concussion.

ice truck

The stand at the back of the ice truck beckoned to kids like me

They told me and my family that the ice truck, which had been stationery with its motor running, started moving forward with a jolt as it pulled away, shifting gears.

I must have fallen backwards, striking my head on the street below where some ambulance attendant found me, placed me in his vehicle, and rushed me to St. Joseph’s Hospital near Broad Street and Girard Avenue.

————

I don’t remember anything beside that moment clinging to the back of the truck on little Marston Street. I spoke to no one who would admit they had been with me when I tried such a foolish trick. My parents and their parents would have chewed them out for letting someone as young as I was then do such a crazy thing.

I often wonder today whether my later growth might have been stunted or perhaps altered somehow by the ice-run accident. We’re finding out more and more about concussions and their effect on the brain. I recall getting treatment years later for “anger management” and one of the questions raised by psychologists was whether you ever had a concussion or other blows to the head. I readily admitted it, having had my fair share of street fights in the neighborhood. I didn’t know the hits to the head would have such lasting effects however.

Maybe that explains why I suffered from PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) years after serving in combat while in Vietnam. I never got hit by any enemy rounds, but I did suffer mentally, and perhaps emotionally, when artillery shells fell near me and around the platoon I had led. You don’t know how shattering the noise can be when something built to kill people crashes onto the ground where you are walking or sleeping.

It can have a chilling effect on any one at any age.

 

6 comments on “The Ice Man Cometh for Me and for Thee

  1. Our traumas are not so much a matter of which one, but ‘all of the above’, from cradle to grave. 😦

    My 92 year old friend, still refers to his fridge as the ‘icebox’. And, instead of gas, he says he has to get ‘fuel’ for his car. Probably because he was drafted into WWII at 19, before he had a car. ‘Fuel’ would have been the word of choice in that case.

    He was a airman gunner & when his plane caught fire, he was the last of 6 to bail into the water where he was captured. POW for a month before he was rescued. He still sleeps with a loaded gun under his pillow.

    He is one of the most generous & caring of men…brought up in the Dust Bowl during the Depression. He is WAY healthier & more well-adjusted than I ever hope to be. Strange how our life ‘here’ plays out.

  2. I must ask my brother about any concussions.

  3. Ah yes. Agent Orange and PTSD.

    • contoveros says:

      I’m lucky when it comes to Agent Orange. My brother, who served in the combat engineers in Vietnam, died of cancer at age 55. I often wonder if he had contracted Agent Orange. I don’t know.

      Who knows what maladies today’s soldiers and young boys (and now girls, too!) will discover as they get older?

  4. contoveros says:

    These messages were shared on Facebook:

    Calliope Contoveros

    My maternal grandfather used to deliver ice in Corona, NY. He was an immigrant from Bari, Italy, a region known as “ice men”.

    Michael J Contos

    Wow, what a story!

    Corona New York.

    An immigrant from Bari, Italy. The region known as Icemen!

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