The Ice Box

Today, let's take a brief stroll down memory lane and talk about a kitchen contraption referred to by the Chesapeake Bay Family as an ice box.

My paternal grandparents had two ice boxes, which seemed odd to me at the time. The newer one was modern for its time (the 1970s) and lived in the kitchen where my grandmother spent most of her day. The other, identical to the one pictured above, was used as a spare.

I remember everything about that old icebox: the feel of the cold, metal pull-handle; the squeak of the door hinges; the blinding glare of the interior light bulb; the metal grating that served as shelving; the smell.

(This wasn't a bad smell, mind you, just a smell. If you want to talk about a bad smell, take a gander in my ice box. That's more of an odor. A very rank odor. But let's get back on track, shall we?)

Unlike my maternal grandmother, this grandmother wasn't from around these parts. This grandmother, the wife of a general, was a former city slicker who dressed to the nines and served icky things like gelatin molds which had all sorts of eyeballs odd looking tidbits jiggling and wiggling about inside. She always had the latest contraptions, including one of the very first microwaves, which was large enough to house a small family but could fry up a pound of bacon in thirty minutes no time at all.

(Coincidentally, this microwave was manufactured around the same year as the computer I'm currently using. Plus, my monitor can fry my retinas a pound of bacon just as quickly. But let's get back on track, shall we?)

The differences in the two iceboxes mirrored the differences between my grandparents. My grandfather was reliable, dependable, and no-frills like the old icebox. My grandmother was flashy, fancy, and thoroughly modern, like her new icebox.

They both did the job well, these two iceboxes, but I always preferred the older one. Although it lacked all the flash, the pizazz, the widgets, the gadgets, the compartments, and the ice makers, it performed its job reliably, adequately, modestly and honestly.

Sometimes in life that's all you need. Something reliable and dependable without all the fanfare.

I miss that old icebox.

More on Mousie

A couple of weeks ago, I traveled down Horn Harbor and took this. I have no idea what the yellow growth in the field is, but it was incredibly pretty. Speaking of things that are incredible, below is another true story about a Gwynn's Island resident.

The other day I posted a story written by a friend of mine regarding the time the funeral home accidentally picked up the wrong person, someone who had overindulged in spirits.

Below is another chapter in the adventures of Mousie, written by my friend.

Another True Story
by the Gwynn's Islander

Mousie was the only Island resident, perhaps Mathews resident, maybe even United States Citizen, to ever receive a drunk driving ticket while riding a Wheel Horse lawnmower complete with a CB and antenna.

A local deputy, who later became a much-despised sheriff, found it necessary to ticket him on one of his journeys to secure provisions, or beer, for himself or the family. One must wonder, what could possibly have been suspicious about his journey, how could a man in his late sixties driving a lawn mower on a public road at a rate of two miles per hour with a cb antenna and a case of beer possibly attract the attention of the local law enforcement?

Not one to be easily deterred, Mousie crafted paths and shortcuts through wood and field to limit his travels on the public thoroughfares.

On one of his subsequent journeys to Callis Wharf, Mousie consumed a bit too much of the cargo, even by his legendary standards. Taking a path as the crow flies, a shortcut through a field bordering Milford Haven, in a desperate attempt to reach the seclusion of the Gwynn's Island Crab House road, in an area now occupied by waterfront condominiums, Mousie's lawn mower became lodged on a tree stump. Mousie was forced to abandon ship and proceed home on foot.

The next morning, much to his horror, Mousie realized his lawn mower was not where it should be. He wasn't sure what had happened. Had it been stolen? Mousie and Tommy searched the island near and far in search of the Wheel Horse tractor. They finally found it where it rested.

Still perched atop the tree stump.

I love happy endings, don't you?

===========================
Chesapeake Bay Woman's Comments:

I wrote a long time ago about the creative skill set of our local population in outwitting the law, even in cases when the individual has lost his driver's license. Bicycles, scooters, wheelchairs, boats, you name the contraption, they've been known to doctor them up into the most unusual--yet functional--vehicles.

When I first returned to the county from living in Northern Virginia, I saw a man driving his lawn mower down the sidewalk at the courthouse....with a six-pack strapped to the mower deck.

I knew, at that moment, that I'd truly arrived home.

In other lawn mower stories, I have a friend whose husband once put grain alcohol in the lawn mower instead of gasoline. The only thing fueled was the ensuing fire.

Wedding Receptions

All together now: another Gwynn's Island sunset. I could snap a million and they'd each be different.

Isn’t it amazing how a taste or a word or a song or a smell can instantly catapult you backwards in time?

The other day I had lunch with a lifelong friend, and afterwards they gave us a mint. This was not your typical after-dinner chocolate mint, or the standard-issue, spiral-striped peppermint or spearmint hard candy. No, this was one of those mints that crumbles in your mouth, the mints that are pastel yellow, pink, blue or green. Remember those?

These mints used to be a mandatory offering at wedding receptions around here. Once upon a time, wedding receptions didn’t require professional planners; they weren’t held in fancy hotels; they did not inspire shows called Bridezillas; they did not cost $10,000 and there most certainly was no sit-down dinner.

Rather, the earliest wedding receptions I attended were held in the church social hall. Everyone gathered to talk and mingle--and, of course, eat. There was a punch bowl full of a red concoction that may have included sherbet or an ice ring. The buffet table consisted of a bowl of mints, a bowl of peanuts, platters of deviled eggs and mountains of ham biscuits. Cake and cookies. The End.

The reception did not last long, perhaps an hour, and then everyone went home. No dancing, no music, no live band, no horse-drawn carriage, no slide show of the newlyweds, just a very simple service followed by a very simple reception.

Speaking of simple, so were the presents. There were no fancy department stores to register with, we had one or two tiny shops that took care of all our gift-giving needs. A wooden napkin holder, some tea towels (anyone still call them tea towels?), or some other practical item might find their way in the gift pile. I do not recall anyone ever giving money, which seems commonplace today.

I truly miss those simpler, less complicated times, where the emphasis was on the ceremony or the event and not on the “stuff.”

I am reminded of this sentiment just as we head into the Christmas season, which is coming our way whether we want it to or not next week. Shopping becomes a contact sport that requires shoulder pads, cleats and a helmet. I'm considering installing a cow catcher on the front of my car so I can plow my way through the pedestrians clogging the parking lots. Not really. I don't think.

Bring back the days where mints and peanuts in a bowl on a buffet table defined a special occasion and a good, salty, country-ham biscuit was the main course.

I guarantee I'll be the first one in line, and the last to leave.

Names

Last Sunday I took Chesapeake Bay Son and Daughter to Bethel Beach, and I didn't get lost once. Another treat? The weather is now so cold, the fiddler crabs have all migrated south, or gone into hibernation, or gone on hiatus or a European cruise or whatever it is fiddler crabs do in the winter. Plus, there was not one horsefly in sight.

I did take a blajillion pictures, so get ready because you're going to be seeing a lot of white sand, blue water, gray wood and brownish-green grasses. Speaking of blajillion, or words you don't hear everyday, let's talk about unusual names.

Reading through the various books I have on Mathews and Gwynn’s Island, I have come upon many names that are unique and some are just plain odd. (By the way, when I say "reading" I mean quickly scanning and flipping pages, stopping to look at a picture or two along the way. It is the ADD thing that I swear I have.)

Besides their given names, many people around here have nicknames. We have a Cougar, Pookie, Mumps, Cotton, Mooch, Meat, Poochie, Bubby and many, many, many others. The list of nicknames would wrap around this planet several times. I'm reasonably sure that Gwynn's Island alone has more folks with nicknames than the states of Virginia and North Carolina combined.

Below is a list of some of the names—these were all first names-- that jumped out at me from the books I’m reading (aka skimming through). Most are from the early 1900's.

Genius (Yes, Genius.)
Garland
Melville
Alma
Narron
Vannie
Levi
Rufus
Missouri
Sleet
Elwood

The unusual names below were from slaves who lived on Gwynn’s Island in the mid- 1800’s:

Kaldonia
Risen
Pinky
Ruiprad
Hennetta
Augustin
Malvina
Millridge
Cassana
Larken
Pursell
Fresman
Ola
Arrinthia
Marnie
Mittie

Personally, I like the name Larken. Larken Cassana has a nice ring to it. In fact, I'm in love with it. That would be a great pen name. I love Risen too. Genius and Rufus? Not so much.

Any Mathews readers (or rather, reader) know of any other local names or nicknames that stand out? How about non-Mathews folks, what's the most unusual name or nickname you've heard?

Signed,
Larken Cassana
The Blogger Formerly Known as Chesapeake Bay Woman