Walking With Bubby

Spring, 1940

“Ice!”

Cruising the street slowly,

leaving a trail of dripping water,

“Ice!”

Leaning through the doorless entry,

“Iceman!” he called, “Ice!”

A head poking through a second story window,

“Iceman,” the woman called, “fifty pounds here!”

 “Aye, Ma’am!”

Turning into the alley,

parking alongside the building,

going to the rear of the Diamond T truck

he uncovered a canvas-covered block of ice and,

stabbing it twice with an ice pick,

 separating,

by his near-perfect reckoning,

a square, fifty‑pound chunk.

Holding the ice by steel tongs,

hefting it up onto his leather-covered shoulder,

the Iceman began his journey into the building

and up the stairs.

A half block away,

content with the slow pace

and their own thoughts,

a little boy and an old lady walked hand in hand.

Seeing the Iceman park the truck,

releasing the old lady’s hand,

the boy ran to the truck and,

standing on tiptoes,

grabbed hold of two shards of ice

then hurrying back to his grandmother,

 “Here, Bubby,”

The boy handed her the smaller piece.

“Thank you, mein kind.” [Thank you, my child.]

Quickening their pace to avoid the iceman

if he should return as they passed,

the old lady leaned forward so the melting ice

would not drip on the front of her sweater.

The boy,

water running down the underside of his arm,

onto the front of his striped Polo Shirt,

licked the sliver of crystal clear ice.

Filtered by the large leaves of overhanging Catalpa trees,

the late afternoon sun made shadows of lace like patterns

on the sidewalk below while above, enticingly out of reach,

long, slender, cigar‑like pods hung in green clusters

as translucent, double‑winged seeds spiraled gently down,

falling on soil, sidewalk, and street.

The six-foot-wide sidewalk ran parallel to

the brick buildings butting to their foundations.

The far side of the walk ended at an eight foot wide

strip of black, recently seeded soil.

Guarding the barely-seen tendrils of newly-sprouted rye grass,

a fourteen-inch-high pipe fence bordered the soil and sidewalk

and ran straight, block after block,

broken only by alleys and streets.

 “Bubby, why do they put these fences here?”

Lost in her own thoughts, shrugging her thin shoulders,

saying what she usually said when asked another of her

grandson’s incessant questions,

“I don’t know mein kind.”

Releasing her hand, skipping to the fence,

The boy jumped up and,

with outstretched arms fanning the air,

took four or five tottering steps

before losing his balance and,

with flailing arms, fell off.

“Bubby, anyone  can step over it

and anything can crawl under it,

so why’s it here?”

 “I don’t know mein kind.”

Running ahead, stopping at the corner,

sitting on the fence he watched his

grandmother as she slowly approached.

Holding the fence with his hands to either

side of his body,

the boy leaned backward until the back of

his head rested

on the warm, sweet‑smelling soil.

Reaching to the side,

he picked up two of the double‑winged seeds.

Pulling himself back to a sitting position,

flicking one of the seeds with a twisting motion

of his wrist,

the boy sent it spiraling onto a thicker,

more visible patch of the thin, spring grass.

Holding the second seed in the palm of his

outstretched hand,

“Bubby,” he asked, “why’s these things got wings?”

To herself, just under her breath, “oy, vay‑iz‑mir!”

To the boy, “I don’t know mein kind.”

Catching the tone of irritability in his grandmother’s

voice, the boy’s smile turned downward.

Seeing his crestfallen look,

quickly attempting to make amends,

“So, okay. So it’s not so bad to ask questions!”

Lifting his face, his smile returned.

“Nu,” the old lady said,

“if you don’t ask questions, how you will learn?”

Standing, the boy again took his grandmother’s warm,

frail hand into his.

©July 16, 2011/ Mark M Lichterman