The Ice Man Cometh

Remember the sound the carts and the
horses' hooves made trundling down
the street, and the knife sharpener 
calling out to the housewives to get
out there with their knives? I can't
recall if the man selling blocks of ice
came daily, but likely he did, using these
huge pincers to carry the already melting
blocks into kitchens for deposit in ice boxes.
We kids used to hang around grabbing at
ice shards at the back of the cart; if the 
vendor could, he's give us a good cuff
to the back of our heads. The horse would
leave steaming balls, lifting his tail in
disdain at us as they carried on to the
next street. These were the days when
the Salvation Army made its presence
known on street corners, in uniform,
unsmiling, serious faces, shiny brass
instruments belting out sacred music in
endlessly repeated performances before
marching on. Remember those times?
I do. Kind of dates me. Yes it does.
But I remember the fat old wrinkled
Nonna next door forever knitting 
stomach-churning puce-coloured 
mittens and caps and scarves for the
boys over at the front lines in France 
and Belgium and Italy. I do remember
all of that, and more, much more. Like
the little house down the street with
no bathroom facilities, but there was
a little shed out back. Where we lived
renting the upstairs flat there was a
bathroom shared by another single
tenant, our family of five, and the
owner's family of two boys older
than me who would sometimes trap
me in that bathroom. I recall, acutely.
Oh, you're leaving, already, none of
your own memories to share? Pity.