From: BMD Workbench

I know the thing in my kitchen is not an icebox; it is a refrigerator – I sometimes call it an icebox, though.

The summer I was born, my father delivered blocks of ice for iceboxes. He was a teacher then and I think he worked for my great uncle’s ice business. My grandmother had an icebox, I’m certain. I vaguely remember it. But then we also had a 1948 Frigidaire and to tell you the truth, I don’t know if it is still working or not. I know it was a few years ago. It had this little, tiny freezer compartment that came down like a nodule from the inside top – and icecube trays that had a little ratchet type release handle.

I have always been behind the times when it has come to icebox improvements. I did not have an icemaker for decades . . . and only a few years ago did I get a refrigerator that dispenses ice through the door, as well as chilled water – which I don’t use.

Yesterday, the divider that separates the freezer part and the refrigerator half got really hot. I vacuumed the coils, but that didn’t help. So I called the local repairman; he made a point of getting over last night and found the hose for the water had blocked the compressor fan. So he unblocked it. I paid him and he left, and then I turned to the newly-revealed accumulation of gunky dirt in the refrigerator area and thought, “Oh, my God.” So we made a stab at cleaning it. I took no pictures, no pictures at all.

Gosh, I’m a yucky housekeeper . . . I need a maid – or to move every year.

Say, that picture above? Wouldn’t it be nice if I could be “restored” to my earlier days . . .