Prisoner of the Truck
Chapter 1 : My Boyhood Prison (Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Order)
During the cold season, it was my daily job to keep the flat warm. The furnace for the inner city flat was in the basement. The basement was extremely dark. There were no light bulbs - - only a red gleam of light coming from cracks in the furnace door. I shook the furnace grill with a grill wrench, sifted the ashes through a screen to catch partially burned coal, recycled the unburned coal fragments back into the furnace, shoveled in new black coal from the bins and adjusted the exhaust pipes as required. I shoveled the ashes into fireproof metal bushel baskets and lugged these heavy containers outdoors for collection by city trash collectors. Monthly, the coal deliveryman replenished the supply of coal by inserting a metal chute through an open cellar window and emptying the contents of his truck into the coal bin.
I hurried my task as best I could. The basement was cold and damp. I heard noises in the dark corners — my presence disturbed the rats. On occasions, the coal in the bin would shift minutes after shoveling, making a frightening noise. I imagined that there was someone lurking in the dark shadows. Each winter morning, it seemed that I had to muster my boyhood courage to finish my task and rush to the warmth, light and safety of the second floor flat.
That was my first task at 4:00 AM on this winter Saturday morning in 1937. This was my third year on my father’s truck. I started when I was eight years old. I dreaded another 17 hour Saturday workday that would end around 10 or 11 PM. The only person who seemed to get up earlier was the milkman. There was an outdoor milk box where he would place two quarts of milk daily. In those days, milk was not homogenized. The cream portion rose to the top of the glass quart bottle. To make the milk whole, we had to shake the bottle. On this morning, frigid weather had frozen the two quarts of milk; the cream portion pushed the round cardboard cover upward, one or more inches outside the top of the bottle. We had no thermometer, or newspaper, or radio. Television had not yet been invented. The milk bottle told the weather story. I knew I was in for a long and cold miserable day.
My mother wrapped a scarf around my neck and pulled my woolen cap down over my ears. I returned her hug. She knew how much I hated to face the long frigid day. She compassionately said, “Shouldn’t you let him stay home today?” My father taking a quick glance at me turned to her and said, “No, I need him.” As always, my father’s word was final. NEXT PAGE
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