An article in a Minnesota newspaper a week or so ago warning parents about certain dressers for children brought to my mind the ice-box incident.

Thursday, January 17, 2002

An article in a Minnesota newspaper a week or so ago warning parents about certain dressers for children brought to my mind the ice-box incident. The dressers as I recall each had four drawers with heart-shaped drawer pulls. They were not correctly balanced and there was danger that when a kid opened a drawer the dresser might tip over on him.

Before the day of electric refrigerators we had a small wooden ice-box. A hunk of ice, ordered from the ice man, was kept in the porcelain-lined square at the top of the box. Food was kept on shelves just below the ice compartment, and a pan under the ice-box sat on the floor behind a small, swinging door, to catch water from the pipe from the top as the ice melted.

We almost always had company for supper. My mother was a woman of her time, one of the first to work in an office. Though, as proper for that day, she gave it up when she married. She was active in her church, in the Eastern Star and various other groups. She did her own sewing, had a huge garden, went swimming every day in the summer and read a great deal.

Things being as they were, I think there were times when she could have survived without guests. Still, her hospitality was never known to falter.

On the night of the ice-box incident she was rushing around madly preparing for three or four last minute guests. She was not in the best of moods, but at four years old I had not learned to be cautious.

As a matter of fact, I was attempting to be helpful. There was a metal hanger for a drinking glass that could be hung on one side of the ice-box top. It was never used and I liked to play with it. It wasn’t easy for me to reach. The ice-box was short, but I was shorter.

Usually, though, I was able to sort of shinny up the front side of the ice-box. On this particular night, though, as I shinnied with the holder in my hand, my foot hit the door latch of the box. It swung open, releasing eggs, milk, cream and whatever else rested on the shelves, as the ice-box tilted forward and crashed to the floor. At that point the lid also popped open sending a 30-pound cake of ice to join the rest of the mess.

I was not then, nor am I now, a fast moving creature, but I managed to jump out of the way as the ice-box fell. My mother was faster than the ice-box. Horrified by the danger I’d been in, overwhelmed by the mess in her kitchen, she gave me a severe smack across the face. This, too, just as the guests and my father, alarmed by the resounding crash of the ice-box, swarmed into the kitchen.

Although she quickly regained her poise, I think my mother rather lost her reputation for being a calm and gentle person that night. There were those who thought for the moment that she’d thrown the ice-box at me. My reputation being what it was I suspect they thought I had it coming.

As for me, I was so uplifted by the whole thing that I didn’t even feel the slap. After supper when I was in my own little bed I relived the whole adventure with relish.

Did I feel remorse? Was I sorry that I had humiliated my parents and upset their guests? I must be honest. I never felt so powerful in my whole life. Totally ignored up until the moment I upset the ice-box, I had suddenly become the center of the attention of every adult present.

I fell asleep wondering drowsily if there were other pieces of furniture in the house that I was capable of upsetting.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.