On the first of August, the Ford Motor Company announced that as 308,213 automobiles had been sold during the previous year, it would begin mailing out fifty-dollar rebate checks, representing about 9 percent of the purchase price of a Model T. The final tally would eventually come to more than fifteen million dollars dispensed—but, once again, Henry Ford had captured the nation’s headlines, this time as the self-made millionaire whose word was his bond.
The first transcontinental telephone communication was achieved from New York all the way to San Francisco and Heinz-Hermann left to be an apprentice butcher in Chicago, Illinois. To celebrate all these wonderful happenings, Hannah invited everyone to a special supper. For such a festive occasion, Stan and John brought red wine, Rudy and Johann, white, Carl and Peter, buckets of beer, Zoltan a fine after-dinner brandy, Fritz, not to be outdone, opened a new bottle of his potent Schnapps. Only Ebbely was missing.
Zoltan never made it home that night, needed to be bedded down at Hannah’s, Rudy and Johann, singing naughty schoolboy songs, had to be guided home by resigned wives, while Rosie and Dora herded their weaving husbands to the Inter-Urban trolley stop like unruly sheep. Stan couldn’t even find his automobile, let alone the crank. Serafina, very furious, steered him to it, ordered him to get in. As he was valiantly attempting to do so, she lost patience, gave him such a shove he went flying into the back seat, where he remained—out cold. Putting on his duster, crank in hand, Serafina marched to the front of the Touring, started it on the very first rotation, clutching her skirts, climbed up, engaged the gears, trod on the pedals and drove off. Hannah and Jane, who had helped her get Stan out of the house, stood transfixed, watching the ruby glow from the tail lantern disappear. A woman driving an automobile? That, they had never seen!
“Dat crazy Serafina! She is really someting!” Full of admiration, not yet quite over the shock, Hannah went back inside to make sure Fritz could get up the stairs, find their room. Jane, very envious of Serafina’s amazing accomplishment, wishing she too knew how to drive, followed—to lead John to his hat, and show him the way home.
Stan having volunteered to drive John and his surprise home from work, helped him carry it around to the back porch.
“I can’t stay, John. We’re having a meeting tonight.”
John looked at his friend, “Careful, Stan.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Who’s coming? Any of my men?”
“I know how you feel about union talk, better you don’t know. I got to go. Say hello to Jane for me. She still angry about the other night?”
“I don’t know. With Jane, you never know!”
“You’re lucky. My wife hasn’t spoken to me since! I’m off, see you tomorrow.” Stan hurried back to his waiting automobile.
“NINNIE, I’m home!” John called through the screen door. “Come out here! I’ve got something to show you!”
Puzzled why he was at the back, dodging the long curls of sticky flypaper hanging down from the kitchen ceiling, Jane stepped out onto the porch.
“Ninnie! Here it is! Your Izze boite!”
“Did I ever pronounce it that badly?” Jane laughed, not quite believing what stood before her.
“Yes, I liked it.”
“Really? But now I can say it properly.”
“I know. Well? You like it? It’s a Siberia, secondhand; I bought it off one of the Belgians going back.”
“Oh, it is marvelous! Now the milk won’t curdle and the butter won’t melt! I can even keep meat! Thank you, John!”
“Well? Come on, say it.” Jane, suddenly shy, hesitated. “Come on …”
“I-C-E B-O-X.” She said it carefully, pronouncing it as though announcing a royal personage arriving at a palace ball.
“But first, I have to repair the handles, then you can give it a good cleaning. Don’t worry, I’ll be adding the extra cents to your weekly household money for the ice.”
While John was busy repairing their latest luxury, Jane, so excited she forgot to put on her hat, ran over to Hannah’s to tell her the news. Duly impressed, Hannah said she would inform Mr. Kennec that he had a new customer on Louise Street.
Repaired, its four brass handles polished with rotten stone until they gleamed, its zinc interior scrubbed, its oak exterior polished to a golden hue, commanding Jane’s kitchen like a piece of imposing furniture; each time she saw her “izzbox,” Jane felt a surge of prideful ownership.
The iceman and his polar bear–adorned wagon arrived the very next morning.
“Whoa—Molly! This here is a new stop! Here lives that Italian Missus we met, used to live at our friend, the German Missus. Remember? So get it set in your head—don’t want to be having to pull you up each time!”
Mr. Kennec always talked to his shaggy Molly. Being a solitary man, Molly was like his better half. He relied on her easy companionship, her warm trusting nature to serve without complaint. Shooing aside the string of children that always trailed an iceman’s wagon in summer hoping for watery chunks to suck, Mr. Kennec positioned a large block, raised his mighty pick and struck, showering them with the frozen bounty they had hoped for. Jubilant, the children scampered about, picking up pieces, licking them quickly before they melted away.
Having heard the clip-clop of his horse, Jane was ready and prepared. Porch and kitchen floor covered with newspapers, a tall glass of lemonade waiting.
“Good morning, Mr. Kennec. Nice to meet you again.”
“Mornin’, Ma’am.” The iceman touched his cap with his free hand. “Much obliged. Missus Geiger, she says you’ll be wanting twenty-five pounds, correct?”
“Yes, please. Are you going to give me a card—so I can put it in the window?”
“Got one right here!” Mr. Kennec rummaged in his jacket pocket, fished it out, handed the card to her with a flourish. The block of ice on his shoulder was beginning to melt down his back.
“Fine-looking box you got there. Mighty fine!” He stood back, surveying the icebox, taking its measure. Jane lifted Michael out of his pen onto her lap, telling him to watch the Big Man, both waited for the performance to begin. A breathless moment—suspended in time—then—a mighty CRACK! And silver fireworks spewed about the kitchen. Michael screamed with glee! The block fit like a glove.
“MO! Mo!”
“What’s that little tyke yelling, Ma’am?” Mr. Kennec sheathed his weapon, wiped his face with a red bandanna.
“That’s his word for more.” Jane returned a very disappointed Michael to his pen. Being such an amiable child, he didn’t cry, just gave his mother a look that spoke volumes.
“Please, I fixed for you lemonade. I hope it’s how you like it.” Jane opened her cookie tin and counted out the fifteen cents.
Mr. Kennec drained his glass, scooped up the coins. “Fine lemonade, Ma’am. Much obliged! Mornin’, Ma’am.”