Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: The Great "Ice Box" Caper... or, Does it Make Any Sense to Plan Ahead??!!
Reflection on past adventures is sometimes a good thing. As "elder statespersons," we can share our wisdom -- often gained through ill-advised misadventures -- with our younger, less experienced family members, friends and others of our acquaintance!
And isn't that one of the great joys and benefits of GeezerHood... You know, to be able to offer wise advice and counsel to those who quite naturally crave our superior thought processes!!
Here's a case in point, a kind of "object lesson" in planning ahead, considering options and probable consequences prior to leaping into tasks that may require brain power! Many years ago, in my callow youth, my now dear departed father insisted that I visit the home of an ancient and recently deceased auntie to salvage an "ice box" as he termed the object, preferring that terminology to "refrigerator." The thing was as ancient as the auntie, but apparently built in the age of refrigerants.... or retrofit?? Thus it did not require a block of ice from the Ice Man (who didn't need to cometh)!
I enlisted the able assistance of my dear friend, Patrick T, who reluctantly agreed to accompany me and assist in the mission. My father "needed" an appliance in which to store his ample quantities of beer, and instructed me / us to collect the object and then move it into his basement laundry room where he had cleared a space in which to situate that important repository for his vital beer inventories!
Stupidly, PT and I ventured forth. I reasoned that we could "hoik" the ancient appliance into my open convertible, a old but serviceable Chevy II, and thus transport it "easily" to its intended new home. We rented an appliance dolly, tossed it into the back seat of the convertible and went on our way to 38th Street just south of North Avenue, an older but well-maintained neighborhood in Milwaukee, where Auntie had resided for many of her 90-plus years on the planet.
As we soon discovered, the appliance weighed more than two or three pachyderms, or maybe comparable to the weight of a 1950s Buick Roadmaster. In any case, we loaded the "ice box" onto the dolly, and proceeded to sweat blood and bullets moving the damn thing from an upstairs bungalow flat down a narrow passageway purporting to be a winding stairway! We put several holes and gashes into the plasterwork in the aforementioned stair corridor, but escaped before the landlord could make his or her inspection of the damage.
(We never heard from that person, perhaps because we would have been unknown to him or her, the "moving out"deed having been done anonymously and rather hurriedly!)
Then came the "hoiking" part. We could not have lifted the damnable appliance even if we had the benefit of a few powerfully-build piano movers. The thing simply refused to be "hoiked" into the convertible.
"Wait a minute," said I, brilliantly. "Let's just tie the dolly onto the back of the car, you know, like a trailer!" PT agreed, a wary and kind of disapproving look in his eye.
"Why not," said he. Although to be honest, he wasn't quite as idiotic as myself, and most likely was unwilling to persist in the feckless effort of trying to lift that beast of an appliance into the automobile's back seat area. We tied the thing onto the car, and then motored off to 68th Street, the then home of my (accursed) father and sainted mother! The dolly-trailer, however, did not cooperate as we'd hoped. It would not manuver the cornering process as might a well-tuned and well-oiled proper trailer. As such, one of us (PT in most instances!() had to get out of the vehicle and manually re-position the dolly and it cargo to enable it to round the corners of our many necessary turns. (PT was not happy, and made it clear this was to be the last of his volunteer efforts in my behalf and in my company!!)
We made it to 68th Street in about an hour and a half, a journey that should have taken approximately 15 minutes. To be accurate about the timing, a couple of police squads halted
our progress with warnings of citations, amid lots of head shaking and threats of placing both of us in a lunatic asylum, possibly separate rubber rooms. "Go on," one of the police persons said, "Next time, put a flashing red light on the, uh, trailer... box car??!!..."
Then came the tricky part. We began to transport the dolly-laden "ice box" toward the basement of my father's home. Up three steps to the entry to the home's back hall. Turning the thing to head down the basement steps, PT in front gripping the dolly handles, me at the rear, lifting and guiding. About two or three steps into the process, PT announced in a shaky and somewhat terrified voice, "It's slipping... I can't... I don't think I can hold it... Oh shit... RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!"
As PT let loose of the enormously heavy refrigerator anchored to the dolly, I reacted speedily, being a young chap at the time, and got out of the way of the runaway beast. It crashed into the wall at the bottom of the basement stairs, leaving an enormous gash, actually a gaping hole. The wall had looked quite elegant, with vertical slats painted in alternate colors of Red and Gold. Oh, and the ice box destroyed my father's prized wall adornment depicting a scene from Mexico, and bearing his first initial and last name. We eventually pieced it back together, but never did find the "J."
Somehow, we were able to extricate the damn thing from the wall, turn it left, move it down the remaining three steps and steer it into the laundry room, where it probably stayed throughout several successive home ownerships. No one but a demolition crew or a certified lunatic would have been nuts enough to move it out!!
My dear old father, strangely, was pleased. I think he loved his beer and his new and actually working beer-specific"ice box" more than he cared about the damage to the basement wall. "Kris can fix it. He can fix anything," my father announced stoically. Kris is my older brother, and he was, at the time, and is indeed gifted with engineering and carpentry skills beyond my own and the comprehension of my male parent or anyone else of my acquaintance.
Following that particular episode, I never again moved a major appliance without the leadership and guidance of persons with real, apparent or professed expertise. Oh yes, and, whenever possible, I chose the top end of the project... or not at all!! Thank you!
Reflection on past adventures is sometimes a good thing. As "elder statespersons," we can share our wisdom -- often gained through ill-advised misadventures -- with our younger, less experienced family members, friends and others of our acquaintance!
And isn't that one of the great joys and benefits of GeezerHood... You know, to be able to offer wise advice and counsel to those who quite naturally crave our superior thought processes!!
Here's a case in point, a kind of "object lesson" in planning ahead, considering options and probable consequences prior to leaping into tasks that may require brain power! Many years ago, in my callow youth, my now dear departed father insisted that I visit the home of an ancient and recently deceased auntie to salvage an "ice box" as he termed the object, preferring that terminology to "refrigerator." The thing was as ancient as the auntie, but apparently built in the age of refrigerants.... or retrofit?? Thus it did not require a block of ice from the Ice Man (who didn't need to cometh)!
I enlisted the able assistance of my dear friend, Patrick T, who reluctantly agreed to accompany me and assist in the mission. My father "needed" an appliance in which to store his ample quantities of beer, and instructed me / us to collect the object and then move it into his basement laundry room where he had cleared a space in which to situate that important repository for his vital beer inventories!
 |
| The rear end of the Chevy II that bravely hauled the ancient Ice Box on a dolly, purporting to be a trailer! Sort of... |
Stupidly, PT and I ventured forth. I reasoned that we could "hoik" the ancient appliance into my open convertible, a old but serviceable Chevy II, and thus transport it "easily" to its intended new home. We rented an appliance dolly, tossed it into the back seat of the convertible and went on our way to 38th Street just south of North Avenue, an older but well-maintained neighborhood in Milwaukee, where Auntie had resided for many of her 90-plus years on the planet.
 |
| A reasonable facsimile of the bungalow flat in which "Auntie" resided, well into her 90s! |
As we soon discovered, the appliance weighed more than two or three pachyderms, or maybe comparable to the weight of a 1950s Buick Roadmaster. In any case, we loaded the "ice box" onto the dolly, and proceeded to sweat blood and bullets moving the damn thing from an upstairs bungalow flat down a narrow passageway purporting to be a winding stairway! We put several holes and gashes into the plasterwork in the aforementioned stair corridor, but escaped before the landlord could make his or her inspection of the damage.
Then came the "hoiking" part. We could not have lifted the damnable appliance even if we had the benefit of a few powerfully-build piano movers. The thing simply refused to be "hoiked" into the convertible.
"Wait a minute," said I, brilliantly. "Let's just tie the dolly onto the back of the car, you know, like a trailer!" PT agreed, a wary and kind of disapproving look in his eye.
"Why not," said he. Although to be honest, he wasn't quite as idiotic as myself, and most likely was unwilling to persist in the feckless effort of trying to lift that beast of an appliance into the automobile's back seat area. We tied the thing onto the car, and then motored off to 68th Street, the then home of my (accursed) father and sainted mother! The dolly-trailer, however, did not cooperate as we'd hoped. It would not manuver the cornering process as might a well-tuned and well-oiled proper trailer. As such, one of us (PT in most instances!() had to get out of the vehicle and manually re-position the dolly and it cargo to enable it to round the corners of our many necessary turns. (PT was not happy, and made it clear this was to be the last of his volunteer efforts in my behalf and in my company!!)
We made it to 68th Street in about an hour and a half, a journey that should have taken approximately 15 minutes. To be accurate about the timing, a couple of police squads halted
 |
| My father's home on 68th Street, last known location of the fabled ice box that weighed more than some pachyderms and a vintage Buick! |
Then came the tricky part. We began to transport the dolly-laden "ice box" toward the basement of my father's home. Up three steps to the entry to the home's back hall. Turning the thing to head down the basement steps, PT in front gripping the dolly handles, me at the rear, lifting and guiding. About two or three steps into the process, PT announced in a shaky and somewhat terrified voice, "It's slipping... I can't... I don't think I can hold it... Oh shit... RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!"
 |
| The wall adornment looked something like this but included a first initial and last name! |
As PT let loose of the enormously heavy refrigerator anchored to the dolly, I reacted speedily, being a young chap at the time, and got out of the way of the runaway beast. It crashed into the wall at the bottom of the basement stairs, leaving an enormous gash, actually a gaping hole. The wall had looked quite elegant, with vertical slats painted in alternate colors of Red and Gold. Oh, and the ice box destroyed my father's prized wall adornment depicting a scene from Mexico, and bearing his first initial and last name. We eventually pieced it back together, but never did find the "J." Somehow, we were able to extricate the damn thing from the wall, turn it left, move it down the remaining three steps and steer it into the laundry room, where it probably stayed throughout several successive home ownerships. No one but a demolition crew or a certified lunatic would have been nuts enough to move it out!!
My dear old father, strangely, was pleased. I think he loved his beer and his new and actually working beer-specific"ice box" more than he cared about the damage to the basement wall. "Kris can fix it. He can fix anything," my father announced stoically. Kris is my older brother, and he was, at the time, and is indeed gifted with engineering and carpentry skills beyond my own and the comprehension of my male parent or anyone else of my acquaintance.
Following that particular episode, I never again moved a major appliance without the leadership and guidance of persons with real, apparent or professed expertise. Oh yes, and, whenever possible, I chose the top end of the project... or not at all!! Thank you!
Humbly Submitted, 02-13-20 -- Joel K.
