In The Shadows: Groundhog Day & Ice Harvesting

On the second day of February many in the U.S. and Canada will be celebrating Groundhog Day. It is a marked occasion whereby people anxiously await their local groundhog to emerge from its burrow and determine whether or not it can see its own shadow. If the answer is yes, it will retreat underground for another six weeks of winter; if it’s cloudy sans shadow, spring is just around the corner. One can always be hopeful for the latter.

It is said that the tradition has its roots in a Pennsylvania Dutch superstition. However the origins seemingly go back much further. Cultures around the world have been known to observe hibernating animals as weather predictors particularly around the half way point between the winter and summer solstice. One such example is from Germany involving a badger surfacing into the light, taking note whether its shadow was visible or not, on none other than Candlemas, the 2nd of February.

My exploration continued through cyberspace to find out more. I learnt some random, but interesting facts, as one does. I discovered the word for badger in German is ‘dachs’ resulting in a lightbulb moment how ‘dachshund’, means ‘badger dog’ and how this ‘wiener’ or ‘hotdog’ dog, as the Americans would call it, or ‘sausage’ dog in Britain, has been so eloquently designed to dig for badgers.All this badger and dachshund research made me think of an amusing photo I took many years ago on one of my visits to the States which then sent me on a trek through other old photos looking for images with shadows.
I found a lovely image of my grandfather Fremont in the dead of winter clearly before any groundhog would have ventured into daylight. I had never looked at this photograph so closely. The shadows initially caught my eye. He is immortalised in the sunshine wearing fashionable crampons (metal plates with spikes strapped to the shoes), using an amazing piece of kit to cut blocks of ice called cakes on the family’s ice pond in upstate New York. He had an ice business until electric refrigerators became common after WWII, and then he modernised and embraced the business of selling appliances and bottled gas.
If one looks closely, there are three shadows in this picture: the formidable death-defying ice saw, Fremont in action staying well clear of the blade and the mystery photographer.I also found a picture of my Great Aunt Ruth moving the cakes onto the conveyor belt that would travel upwards into the ice house for storage. 
There were at least four ice houses at this location. A Hudson River warehouse might typically measure 120 metres long by 30 metres deep and three stories high. The cakes would then be covered in straw or sawdust to insulate them until delivery.To see if I could find out more about my family’s icy shadows of its past, I contacted Corinth Museum that has a rich abundant archive of local history of which my family has been part of for 250 years. I was kindly sent several images of photographs my Great Uncle Wilber had deposited aeons ago of the ice pond and business adverts. My understanding is that Wilber owned the ice pond and shared it with Fremont. However they each had their own ice delivery business. In this collection of photos there’s an interesting one showing the multiple ice houses.

Clothier Ice Pond with Ice Houses
(image courtesy of Corinth Museum)

I was also delighted to finally see an image of the horses and wagon that my dad would talk about. When he was a teenager, he would drive the horses and deliver the ice when petrol was rationed during WWII. In looking at the picture, it appears it would have been about midday and that it could have been summer, as the man in the shadows has no coat and there is grass in the background. Perhaps they were loading for an afternoon run?

Eggleston Ice Wagon
(image courtesy of Corinth Museum)

From Groundhog Day to ice harvesting, reflecting on ‘in the shadows’ has been an adventure.
Photograph Of The Ice Harvest
An entity who stands unknown;
no name – no face – obscurity,
casts shadow over water white,
the frozen virgin purity
defiled by teeth and cutting edge
roaring, screeching, cracked and violent,
trapped and still on paper gazing
through the nameless, dead eye silent
watching man, my father’s father
control the wild monster in hand,
ice cakes comin’, load the wagon,
deliv’ry in the old homeland.
Thank you for reading.
Kate J Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook