Hurry! Here comes the iceman! It was a familiar call on a warm humid summer morning in the 1930s in our small village of Michigan. “It’s the iceman! Hurry!” Youngsters’ voices echoed the urgent message in our neighborhood. Children scampered swiftly, coming from all directions. Accompanied by my barefooted friends, we rushed down Lincoln Street to where Mr. Ed Huff, the iceman, had pull...
To access content, please login or purchase a subscription.