Summer ice capade
Taking turns as a pusher and then a rider, each one of us worked and rode the chilly (ice block) for the length of a couple city blocks until the initial excitement abated a bit and then was totally upstaged by a suggestion that was unthinkable, and yet challenging at the same time. We’d push it off the top of 72 stairs.
Union Ice Machines were a very common sight in the Oakland neighborhood where I lived in 1960.
Shed-like structures that stood outdoors, they dispensed huge blocks of ice after the required coins were deposited. Think of it as a giant size vending machine that made this horrific sound whenever the luggage sized ice block came crashing out the canvas lidded slideramp. Taking notice this one day turned curiosity into temptation for my mates and me. With a kid’s brain mentality this exclusively adult commodity suddenly took on a recreational function if only the price was right.
Peeking under the canvas lid we noticed that the pathway was unobstructed and could easily accommodate a small bodied person if one managed to wiggle their way into the interior chamber. Having accomplished a wee bit of contortionism the individual would simply undo the next available ice block from its mooring and cautiously send it sliding out the receiving tray. Jerry Brain AKA Brain Box AKA No Bone was the chosen volunteer not because of any Eskimolike qualities but simply for his midget-like body frame that could squeeze into the small opening.
Success was echoed by verbal high fives all around with No Bone relishing an unfamiliar popularity that stood in contrast to his familiar unpopularity on the ball fields and school yards whenever games needed competent players. But today he was king of the hill and lord of the massive ice block whose fate had yet to be determined.
Within seconds the group dynamic kicked in with a fusillade of suggestions and ideas of how best to enjoy the increasingly shrinking iceberg. Riding the crest of his newfound fame, No Bone unabashedly saddled up atop the giant berg and pointed the direction he wanted to go. Having maneuvered the ice block to the nearby sidewalk surface, the melting berg made for a perfectly lubricated sled which thrilled us all to no end. Taking turns as a pusher and then a rider each one of us worked and rode the chilly conveyance for the length of a couple city blocks until the initial excitement abated a bit and then was totally upstaged by a suggestion that was unthinkable, and yet challenging at the same time. We’d push it off the top of 72 stairs.
Rolling hills made up the primary geography of this Oakland neighborhood, much to the chagrin of local bike riders astride single gear Schwinns, street ball players and block ice pushers. Better known as “72 stairs,” the Carrington Walkway ran adjacent to Jungle Hill and was an off-street route that provided a shortcut for pedestrians who otherwise would’ve been forced to traipse the long way around instead of directly over the top and to the connecting street above.
On visualizing the goal and its awe-inspiring end, all the foreseen logistical challenges that had been previously touted by my buddy laborers soon evaporated.
Motivated anew by a spirit of group adventure we all went about the work of getting the big slab of ice shoved and hauled the long way around until we had reached the intended precipice above the stairs that fell below us like an endless ladder of cement. What we had accomplished, we thought, could only be appreciated by the pyramid builders themselves upon sliding the final granite block into place atop king pharaoh’s ancient skyscraper tomb.
Before us was a moment in time, we believed, that would not soon be forgotten, the genesis of an urban legend, if you will. With the mammoth push-pull undertaking complete we now paused a few minutes to catch our breaths and to ponder the final phase of our day’s mission. We were clearly aware that what we’d soon witness would be fleeting, brief and historic, which simultaneously produced a peculiar mood of wanting to savor every precious moment before the eventual ice capade.
Slowly we positioned the ice boulder on the landing above the uppermost walkway step. Although the foot traffic was nil down the seemingly bottomless 72 stairs, we dutifully shouted a warning to all below for good measure. Then in unison our hands tipped the frozen behemoth until gravity took ahold and pulled it down to begin its tumbling and spasmodic journey to becoming tiny ice cubes below.
Perhaps 20 seconds elapsed before the final throes of its weighted mass splattered at the bottom in so many shards.
Who’s thirsty? Let’s go find some empty soda bottles. We can cash’ em in for some grub and drinks. What should we do tomorrow?