Icebox

 Springtime was coming to a close, he said to himself. Cool days gave way to the summer heat that again outstayed its welcome. Summer months meant sleepless nights trying to stay cool, but with no electricity or other creature comforts, he made do by opening the two windows he had in the cabin he built almost fifty years ago. Once a week, he made the journey on foot, pulling a small wagon to the icehouse in the small town about three miles away. As a younger man he took advantage of these trips by shooting game and finding new herbs and other forest gifts that sustained him his entire life. But these days, it seemed all he had the mind to do was take the long walk, slowly pulling the wagon and buying a block of ice. It seemed like forever until the town was in sight, and he saw a line outside the icehouse doing what everybody had to do. He made small talk to folks he had known for half a century even though the conversation topics repeated themselves. Did you get your gardens done, or do you still do odd jobs, even an invite to Sunday supper after church? He was polite as he had always been, and before he left town to return home, he had a handshake on a job he could do whenever he was inclined to do it. The porch on the Smith cabin had rotted and caused Mrs. Smith to fall through the floorboards. Like most women around these parts, she was a tough old gal, so nobody would ever know about it, even if she was hurt.

Back home, he put the block of ice in the ice box to keep his meat cold until he ate it all. The following day, He made another trip to town to fix the old porch and another block of ice. He went to the sawmill and picked out six boards made of oak, which he preferred over pine. Oak was stronger and would outlast the Smiths and himself if we were being honest. It took him only a short time to make the repairs, and just about supper time, Mrs. Smith called him to come and eat. It was a big meal of fried chicken, white potatoes, greens, and an apple pie he couldn't wait to sink into.

His job in town was over, so he thanked the Smiths, picked up a block of ice, and headed home. It was nearly dark when he saw his cabin ahead, and he picked up his step, as being in total darkness at his age could mean trouble. Once he got inside, he groped around, lighting lamps and putting his ice up. It had been a long day, and he was tired. He skipped his nightly shot of whiskey and said a quick prayer, thanking God for giving him this day. He then closed his eyes and hoped for another.

He didn't know for sure what day it was; it didn't matter much anymore. There wouldn't be any visits from grown-up children as both had passed on at early ages from the virus that didn't spare anyone. Neither of them had any kids, so he'd never be called Grampa, which stung a bit. They lost folks here as well, but for some reason unknown to the town's doctor, a few were spared and went on to live full lives. He was one of them, even though he felt more like he just lived day to day until one morning when all the ice had melted, and he couldn't face another walk into town and back. It didn't bother him. As a matter of fact, he smiled, knowing he would see his wife and children soon. He took one last look around his cabin and the simplicity of it that he liked. He poured a tall glass of whiskey, drank it, and looked up at the stars through a window he had made so long ago.

Mike 2024