Some years ago the sign came down, followed by the house. As long as someone wanted ice, there was no reason not to keep selling it. I imagined that over many years the iceman had come to feel this was his town and to know his people. But it was part of the town, walking distance from everything you needed. So his story was left to my imagination, and one notion that passed through my mind on those silent nights was whether an iceman might remain in business longer in a small place like Morristown.Ĭoal Avenue, as the name suggests, wasn’t the fanciest address. At the corner of Coal Avenue I passed an old wooden house with a sign that said “Ice.” I didn’t know the man who owned it, but I found it intriguing that this would remain a commercially viable commodity some years after most folks had traded in their ice boxes for refrigerators.Īfter I suggested one of our local columnists interview the iceman, she reported that he had politely declined.
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