Father Wakes up the Village

by Clarence Day

One of the most disgraceful things about life in the countryside, Father often stated, was the general inefficiency of small village shopkeepers. He said he had originally supposed that these men were interested in business, and that that was why they had opened their shops and put money in them but, no, they never used them for anything except chatter and sleep. They took no interest in civilised ways. They hadn't heard of them, probably. He said that of course if he were camping out in the jungle or the tundra, he would expect few conveniences in the neighbourhood and would do his best to forget about them, but why should he be forced to do the same twenty miles from New York?

Usually, when Father talked this way, he was thinking of ice. He could not understand why he had to spend even one day of his life without a glass of cold water beside his plate at every meal. There was never any difficulty about this in our home in the city. A great silver ice-water container stood in the dining room all day, and when Father was home it was frosted with cold. When he had gone to the office, the ice was allowed to melt sometimes, and the water got warmish, but never in the evening, or on Sundays, when Father might want some. He said he liked water, he told us it was one of Nature's best gifts, but he said that like all her gifts it was unfit for human beings unless it was prepared in a suitable way. The only right way to serve water was icy cold.

One of the first summers that Father ever spent in the country, he rented a furnished house not far from New York. It had a garden and a large area of forest, and Father doubtfully arranged to camp out there. He took a train for New York every morning at eight-ten, after breakfast, and he got back between five and six, bringing anything special we might need along with him, such as a basket of peaches from the city, or a fresh package of his own private coffee.

Things went well until one day in August the ice-man didn't come. It was hot, he and his horses were tired, and he hated to come to us because the house we had rented was on top of a hill. He said afterwards that on this particular day he had not liked the idea of making his horses drag the big ice-wagon up that steep road to sell us fifty cents of ice. Besides, all his ice was gone anyhow – the heat had melted it. He had four or five other good reasons. So he didn't come.

Father was in town. The rest of us waited in shock, wondering what could have gone wrong. We were so used to the regularity of life in the city that it seemed unbelievable to us that the ice-man would not appear. We discussed it at lunch. After lunch had been over an hour and he still hadn't come, Mother got so worried about what Father would say that she decided to send us to the village to find out where the ice was.

There was no telephone, of course. There were no motor cars. She did not like to use the horse, because he had worked hard that week. But as this was a crisis, she called the driver and told him to get ready.

The big carriage arrived. Two of us boys and the driver went off. The sun shone down on our heads. The driver was silent. When we boys were with him, he couldn't take off his black hat or his thick coat. Worse still, he couldn't stop for a chat or a smoke. That was why Mother sent us with him, of course, and he knew it.

We arrived at the little town after a while and I went into the Coal & Ice Office. An old clerk was dozing in a corner, his chin resting on his shabby shirt. I woke this clerk up. I told him about the crisis at our house.

He listened complainingly, and when I had finished he said it was a very hot day.

I waited. He spat. He said he didn't see what he could do, because the ice-house was locked.

I explained seriously that this was the Day family and that something must be done right away.

He hunted around his desk a few minutes, found his tobacco, and said, "Well, I'll see what I can do about it."

I thanked him very much, as that seemed to me to settle the matter. I went back to the carriage. The driver was gone. He re-appeared soon, coming out of a side door down the street, putting on his coat. He looked worse than the tired, old horse.

We drove slowly home. A hot little breeze moved the dirt with us. At the bottom of the hill, we boys got out. The horses dragged the heavy carriage up.

Mother was sitting outside. I said the ice would come soon now. We waited.

It was a long afternoon.

At five o'clock, the driver and I drove back to the village. We had to meet Father's train. We also had to break the bad news to him that he would have no ice-water for dinner, and that there didn't seem to be any way to get any.

The village was as sleepy as ever, but when Father arrived and learned what the situation was, he said the village would have to wake up. He told me that he had had a long, difficult day at the office, the city was hotter than the Sahara Desert, and he was completely worn out, but that if any ice-man imagined for a moment he could behave like this, he, Father, would pull his head off. He walked into the Coal & Ice Office.

When he came out, he had the clerk with him, and the clerk had put on his hat and was vainly trying to calm Father down. He was promising that he himself would come with the ice-wagon if the driver had left, and deliver all the ice we could use, and he'd be there in less than an hour.

Father said, "Less than an hour! You'll have to come quicker than that."

The clerk got rebellious. He explained that he'd have to get the horses himself, and then find someone to help him lift a block of ice out of the ice-house. He said it was almost time for his supper and it wasn’t his job. He was only doing it as a favour to Father. He was just being neighbourly.

Father said he had to be neighbourly in a hurry, because he wouldn't stand for it, and he didn't know what the ice company meant by such poor work.

The clerk said it wasn't his fault, was it? It was the driver's.

This was poor tactics, of course, because it made Father angry again. He wasn't interested in whose fault it was, he said. It was everybody's. What he wanted was ice and a lot of it, and he wanted it in time for his dinner. A small crowd which had gathered by this time listened admiringly as Father shook his finger at the clerk and said he had dinner at six-thirty.

The clerk ran to get the big horses. Father waited till he'd turned the corner.

Followed by the crowd, Father marched to the butcher's.

After nearly a quarter of an hour, the butcher and his assistant came out, carrying what seemed to be a coffin, covered in a black coat. It was a huge block of ice.

Father got in front, sat on the driver’s seat beside me and we drove off. The driver was on the back seat, sitting back-to-back to us, keeping the ice from sliding out with his legs. Father went a few doors up the street to a little shop and got out again.

I went in the shop with him this time. I didn't want to miss any further scenes of this performance. Father began by demanding to see all the man's fridges. There were only a few. Father chose the largest he had. Then, when the sale seemed complete, and when the owner was smiling with pleasure at this sudden sale, Father said he was buying that refrigerator only on two conditions.

The first was that it had to be delivered at his home before dinner. Yes, now. Right away. The shopkeeper explained over and over that this was impossible, but that he'd have it the next morning, sure. Father said no, he didn't want it the next morning, he had to have it at once. He added that he had dinner at six-thirty, and that there was no time to waste.

The shopkeeper gave in.

The second condition, which was then put to him firmly, was shocking. Father announced that that fridge must be delivered to him full of ice.

The man said he was not in the ice business.

Father said, "Then, I don't want it."

The man said obstinately that it was an excellent fridge.

Father made a short speech. It was the one that we had heard so often at home about the inefficiency of village shopkeepers, and he put such strong emotion and anger in it that everyone in the shop could hear his voice. He finished by saying, "A fridge is no use to a man without ice, and if you haven't the enterprise to sell your goods to a customer who wants them delivered in a condition to use, you had better shut your shop and go home. Not in the ice business, hey? You aren't in business at all!" He marched out.

The shopkeeper came to the door just as Father was getting into the carriage, and called out, "Alright, Mr. Day. I'll get that refrigerator filled for you and send it up right away."

Father drove quickly home. A thunderstorm seemed to be coming and this had woken the horse up, or else Father was putting some of his own energy into him. The poor old boy probably needed it, as again he climbed the steep hill. I got out at the bottom, and as I walked along behind I saw that the driver was looking desperate, trying to sit in the correct position while he held in the ice with his legs. The big chunk was continually sliding around under the seat and doing its best to escape. It had hit against his legs all the way home. They must have been very cold.

When the carriage arrived at our door, Father remained seated a moment while the driver, the cook and I pulled and pushed at the ice. The coat had come off it by this time. We threw it on the grass. A little later, after the driver had washed the horse, he ran back to help us boys break the ice up, push the chunks around to the back door and into the fridge while Father was changing for dinner.

Mother had calmed down by this time. The water was cooling. “Don’t get it too cold!”, Father called.

Then the ice-man arrived.

The old clerk was with him, like a guard in charge of a prisoner. Mother stepped out to meet them, and at once gave the ice-man the scolding that had been waiting for him all day.

The clerk asked how much ice we wanted. Mother said we didn't want any now. Mr. Day had brought home some and we had no room for more in the fridge.

The ice-man looked at the clerk. The clerk tried to speak, but no words came.

Father put his head out of the window. "Take a hundred kilos," he said. "There's another fridge coming."

A hundred-kilo block was brought into the house and put into the bath. The cook put the old coat over it. The ice-wagon left.

Just as we all sat down to dinner, the new fridge arrived, full.

Mother was annoyed. She said, "Really!" crossly. "Now what am I to do with that piece that's waiting out in the bath?"

Father chuckled.

She told him he didn't know the first thing about looking after a house, and went out to the bathroom with the cook to solve the problem. The thunderstorm crashed. We boys ran around shutting the windows upstairs.

Father was at peace. He had eaten well and he had his coffee served to him on the veranda. The storm was over by then. Father smoked his evening cigar.

I heard Father saying contentedly on the veranda, "I like ice."