Susan MacNeil

My Nana Kay’s collection of Wagner flocked and Steiff mohair animals, made in West Germany, were given to me when she died.  I was 28 and coveted the collection because it reminded me of her turn of the century life.  Fantastical memories of my grandmother’s youth came to me through my mother, who simultaneously shared her own childhood experiences. 

In today’s world, it’s impossible to believe that someone called The Ice Man drove his horse-pulled wagon to deliver blocks of ice for refrigeration.  Somehow he would grasp the 25lb, 50lb or 100lb blocks of ice with huge tongs and haul them on his back from house to house.  While he focused on delivery, children would swarm the wagon and reach for ice chips, separating wood slivers from the slippery shards that slid through their fingers and into their mouths. 

The Organ Grinder carried his instrument on a large strap over his shoulder, accompanied by a dancing monkey to entertain the masses for a few coins.   The Peanut Man sold bags of hot roasted peanuts for 5 cents, the red striped bag clutched in a warm grip as smiling customers walked away.

As late as the 50s, circus elephants and caged animals were delivered by train and then paraded through the streets to their waiting tent. I hold my grandmother’s treasures to revere a time that has disappeared, fortunate to have these verbal and tangible memoirs.  We live, we die, but if we’re lucky, our stories last forever.