Deadly on the Breeze

With apologies to Housman 

              Deadly on the breeze the pollen now

              Blows in my face from every bough,

              Swelling eyes and nostrils wide,

              Burning them red at eventide.

 

              Of my three-score snorts and ten

              Hundreds always come again

              To make my coughing twenty score

              And give me fifty sneezes more.

 

              And so to hide from thugs in bloom

              I haunt my air-conditioned room.

              About each window I will go

              To see the spring and bear the woe.

                                                            Summer Love

“What’s your hurry, love?” she seemed to ask,

As wincing I stood wounded by her grasp.

The more I tugged, hoping to pull free,

The more she gripped my pant leg near the knee.

“I always hurt the ones I love,” she sighed.

Now I, the one, alarmed at being tied,

Reached to free her grip from off my side.

But then she clutched with lovesick might

My shoulder with a stinging bite,

And rapt with ecstasy she held me tight.

 

The more I fought the more her claws dug in.

“Let loose, Tar Babe!” I called. “I’m stuck again.”

“I’d love to hold you longer,” she replied.

But gingerly with pain I deftly pried

Away those thorny-fingered, clinching arms

And wrestling free I slipped outside her charms.

 

I left her flailing there in helpless search

Of other wayward beaus within her perch.

And looking back I saw her lurch and sway,

As if the wind might help her break away

To curse the dirt that dared to hold her bound.

And then she swung and curled herself around.

 

I watched and listened as I backed away,

And with amazement stopped to hear her say:

“As time goes by you’ll watch for blooms of white

That flourish on me almost overnight.

Oh you’ll be fondling me in warmer weather.

By then you’ll want to stick with me forever—

When suns of summer bake my beauties black

And crafts a taste so pure to bring you back,

And forms them round in almost perfect spheres,

Curing them soft with juice as autumn nears.

You’ll disregard my prickly tines of love

To mouth delicious fruit from up above.”

 

I walked awhile beyond her sound and view

And as I tramped I thought and then I knew

That I’d return into her arms again.

Ah, well I knew that this was not the end,

For lovers bear the pain they have to face

To taste the joy in some secluded place.

They suffer but give in to their desires,

And rush to know the splendor in the briers.

 

And so I’ll go again to suit my wishes,

                                    And suck my thumb in pain for dark-lipped kiss

 

Double Dating – Autumn, 1950

You know how it is on a late October day, when the morning chill makes you think you're two months into December, and makes you pull last March’s sweatshirt over your shoulders and hug yourself for warmth. But then, by early afternoon, before you have time to think about it, cosmic batteries charge the eastern floodlight, so that beams of magic radiance warm the earth, taking you back two months into August and making you chuck that sweatshirt and fling open your arms with delight.

It was one of those days that Saturday, that Saturday in 1950 when I was fourteen, so many years ago. Let me take you back to that day, that day filled with youthful bewilderment and uneasy anticipation. I promise to return you to the present, and leave you tainted only temporarily by the tender turbulence of those teenage times. It all started in our eighth grade science class. Temple Smith and I were pretty good buddies at that time, and he and I were fooling around — talking and having fun with Libby Jean Powell and Betty Fasbenner, trying to sweet-talk them, I guess, if we had the knack or even the inclination to sweet-talk at that age.

Now, wistful reader, think back to your early high school years and, whether you lived in Chesapeake City or China, think of how those adolescent yearnings were especially active, sort of in a jitterbugging frenzy throughout your body. Well, that was our condition that day as he and I bantered with those pretty girls. Anyway, it was Friday, near the end of class, and at one point during the interplay, either Libby or Betty said, "Hey, why don't you two come out to see us tomorrow? We can have more fun together away from school."

Well, we talked it up and decided that Temple and I would meet Libby and Betty at Churchtown, just past Mr. Foard's big brick general store on the corner and near the historic Saint Augustine Church, not far from where the girls lived. It was settled: we'd meet at 1 p.m. the next day, Saturday. I was to meet Temple at his Uncle Sam Caldwell’s farm, which was on the way to Churchtown. From there we’d cycle to meet the girls. I pedaled home from school that afternoon with all kinds of thoughts swirling through my mind: "Should I bother to go? Did Temple like Libby or Betty? Where would we go when we got there? What would we do, anyway? I always make fun of girls. What's going on here?"

Saturday morning I got up before dawn to hunt ducks along Long Creek, up above the Marine Construction Company (where the Delaware Responder is now at Capt. Dan’s). But my heart wasn't in it. I was turning over in my head what that double date was going to be like, and whether I was bold enough to even ride out there. So I tied off my boat at Borger’s Wharf (now the Chesapeake Inn) and trudged on home the back way: up Mount Nebo, past Mallory Toy’s fish pond, and through the woods to our farm.

I shot baskets for a while and then checked the clock and sure enough I had almost enough time to get to my double date. So I got on my bike, pedaled around McNatt's corner, and labored up that long, steep hill to Temple's farm. But I didn't pedal with much enthusiasm, sort of meandered along. I rolled into Temple's lane and up to his big farmhouse—nobody in sight. I went out to the barn—nothing but cows. I rode my bike around the house several times and made a few circles out in the road. Then I said, "Aw, what the heck!" and headed out to Churchtown.

But, when I arrived, nobody was there, not even old Mr. Foard, the owner of the general store. So I spun over by the graveyard and rode out a little towards Cayots Corner—still nobody, not even any cars went by. Why did I think I might see Libby or Betty in the distance, waving with happy excitement to see me? But it was the quietest, most deserted area I had ever seen. And so, relieved and disappointed at the same time, I sped on back home, glancing over at Temple's deserted farm on my way past.

And do you know that in school the next Monday none of us said a word about the previously planned date? It was as if that Friday conversation never took place. To this day I don't know what went on that afternoon. Could it have been that, because I was late, Temple had the company of both girls that day? Geez, I hope not! More than likely, I'll bet that Libby Jean, Betty, and Temple don't remember even the slightest thing about the planned date. I thought of my Uncle Ernest, and how he said all the beautiful girls found him irresistible, and here I was not even able to get girls to meet with me to talk. Oh, I was to have some nice double dates when I grew older, but none as memorable as the one I had with myself on that special late October Saturday in 1950.

 

Self-Restraint

I’ve been around religious folks all my life. My mother was a Methodist who attended the Trinity Methodist Church on Chesapeake City’s Bohemia Avenue. Services are still held in the beautiful church, which was constructed with stone at the end of the nineteenth century. The church has a belfry and a sexton who pulls the rope that rings the large bell, and as a boy I remember being alerted by the sound of the tolling bell on Sundays at 10 a.m. for Sunday school, and at 11a.m. for the adult service. My family lived on a small farm about a half mile from Chesapeake City. Echoing clearly across the field, the peal of the rhythmic chimes would always give me pause, stirring in me, somehow, a comforting feeling. And, sure, it tolled for me a lament on the occasional Sundays when I didn’t make it to Sunday school. On most Sundays, however, my mother took me in, making sure I wore shoes and a clean shirt.

I have a vivid memory of my first day in Sunday school; I was five years’ old. My first Sunday school teacher was impressive as well. His name was T. H. Johnston. His lesson was impressive because, even after seventy-eight years I’m still thinking, talking, and writing about its value. T.H. surely didn’t concern himself with self-restraint, because soon after I had entered the room, he wrestled me down to the floor and dragged me under the table amongst the dust bunnies. His sermon made up in physical dexterity for what it lacked in Spiritual refinement.  Yes, indeed, I learned to manipulate my jabbing elbows, knees, and feet almost as well as he did before his mother and mine broke it up. So, folks are stretching the truth when they say that a little religion won’t hurt, because I found out that it did. Even so, from that point on I understood why church going was so appealing, and that, dang gone, I was going to like it.

But that stimulating event is really not what I intended to tell you about . . . so don’t pay any attention to what I just wrote. In fact, clear it from your mind and be ready for the story I’m about to relate. Let me take you back to about the year 2005 with my friend, Walter Watson. I won’t keep you long.

I made friends with Walter after I became interested in the history of Chesapeake City and its canal. I would visit him at his home in town about once a week. He would let me copy his vintage pictures of the old town and canal. He was especially knowledgeable and articulate. He told stories about his escapades as a boy and young man. One of his reminiscences took place when he was eight years’ old. He explained that he was playing by the top, open window of Ralph Rees’ enormous granary that was built on pilings that extended into the canal. The building was located where the creamery is today (2019).

Well, Walter (he was 85 when he told me this) said that jumping and fooling around as kids will do, caused him to tumble through the open window and fall thirty feet into the canal. He fell head-first, hit the water, and submerged to the muddy bottom and got his head stuck in mud. Just his feet were sticking above the water as he struggled to free his head. Animated and shaking as he described the occurrence, he told me that, if it had not been for a worker who had seen him fall, he would have drowned.

Obviously I enjoyed my conversations with Walter very much. On every occurrence, he would work in his favorite little joke. It never failed that, as he spoke about quirky people and peculiar events from Chesapeake City’s past, at some point in my visit he would show and tell his favorite witticism. Grinning as he looked at me, he would raise his arm towards his face, with his thumb and forefinger held a half inch apart (as if to say “I missed it by this much”) he would declare, “My memory is only this long.” And, grinning, he’d deliver his zinger: “And that’s not the only thing that’s this long.” Even though I had heard the quip many, many times, I would smile and giggle acknowledgement. Then he would continue to show me pictures that would remind him of stories about the old canal and town.

At this point, patient reader, you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with self-restraint. Well, sit back and relax. Put your feet up, take a sip from your highball and brace yourself. I’m going to tell you. One Sunday, back when I had been visiting Walter frequently, my wife and I went to a service at Chesapeake City’s Trinity Methodist Church. At that time the minister happened to be a young lady. After her stimulating sermon, by chance my wife and I, the minister, and two other women were assembled in the small antechamber attached to the church proper.

Well, as we all chatted, Walter strode in and joined the conversation. We talked about the sermon and the beautiful church. Walter said that he remembered the church before the fellowship hall was built. Years ago, he explained, the lawn contained grave markers. Well, at this point my eyes got big and I steadied myself for what was to come. And, sure enough, Walter held out his hand with his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart and, loud and clear, stated, “You know, my memory is only this long.”  Then he paused as I glanced at the preacher and my wife . . . but he didn’t deliver the punch line. Instead, he nodded to us and said, “Lovely day we’re having” and stepped out the door. Impressed (and relieved), I marveled at the self-restraint it must have taken to leave his favorite, oft-uttered punch line hanging in the air – squandered.

 

Harry Alston

Back in high school in the early 1950s, in a town called Chesapeake City, we teenage boys used to watch Harry Alston perform at our Friday night dances. The school sponsored the activity after the basketball games that were held in the early evening. Harry was a local man who had recently been discharged from the service. I’d like to tell you about him, as well as some other things that happened back then.

Those evenings of music in the gym would give the older teenaged students, as well as young adults of the town, a chance to socialize. On most Friday nights, Harry Alston and Maggie, his wife to be, would dance to the great pop music emanating from the jukebox. Well, believe me, Harry and Maggie used to steal the show. Maggie would be attractively dressed in bright colors. She was resplendent with her fluffy, coiffured hair and her lips painted fire-engine red. And her partner, Harry? Why, he was the best dressed dancer on the floor. Princely thin, he was dazzling in white shirt, dark-blue tie, and stylish, powder-blue suit. And his black shoes were so finely polished that you gave them only a quick glance for fear of hurting your eyes.

But their attire was secondary compared to the way they danced. They glided gracefully around the floor. Sometimes they danced cheek-to-cheek, and sometimes Harry would sort of fling her out and they would dance apart, hand-in-hand. And all the time Harry would display a serene smile, his long, thin, sun-tanned face would radiate with delight, as if his enjoyment of the music filled him with immeasurable pleasure. 

But, now, let me tell you about how Harry Alston entertained us in quite a different way. I used to hang out with a group in the early 1950s when I was a know-it-all teenager. There would be maybe seven or eight boys standing around in front of Luther Postell’s soda shop and newsstand. We all called it Postell’s Corner, where store patrons had to filter through the cluster of boys in order to enter and exit the store. I never heard Mr. Postell complain about the nuisance; but it must have given him pause.

 In those times, in provincial Chesapeake City, there was little else for boys in our age group to do. Of course, we would do and say the standard, dumb teenage things: one of the boys would get in another boy’s face and say, “God, you’re ugly.” Then he would raise his fist as if to strike him, and if he flinched, the first boy would say, “Ahh, you flinched.” Then he would sock the flincher on the arm with enough impact to raise a lump. This was an activity that occurred fairly often whenever a group of us goofy teenage boys got together back then.

I, of course, was a participant in this idiocy, being a recipient as well as a perpetrator. Each boy contributed his special talent to the fragmented banter.  A lot of unsavory language prevailed. Certain boys were experts in scatological cursing; others had it in for the various deities. And some just listened and watched because there was nothing better to do. The chat would be varied, for sure. Girls and their relative attractiveness would be covered. The comments would deal with which girls were shy, which ones were friendly, and which ones would tell you to get lost if you talked to them. And there was usually a Romeo in the group who would brag about how popular he was with the ladies.

Another topic of conversation was professional sports. We had followed the teams on radio and later on black and white television. Since Baltimore did not have the Orioles until 1954, many of us were fans of the New York Yankees, whose Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, and Mickey Mantle were heroes. In pro basketball, the Boston Celtics were powerful. We all admired Bob Cousy, Tommy Heinsohn, and big Bill Russell. And in pro football, we praised the feats of the great Johnny Unitas and Gino Marchhetti. And all of us boys who adorned Postell’s Corner at the time, discussed the abilities of the top professional boxers: Joe Lewis, the brown bomber (heavyweight), classy Sugar Ray Robinson (middleweight), and the most elusive heavyweight, Jersey Joe Walcott.

          Often the corner talk would be about souped-up cars and their owners. Oh, we looked up to the older boys who installed enormous horsepower engines in their Chevys and Fords. Local boy, Shorty Stafford, just home from the service, augmented his 1952 Chevy engine so he could race it. We talked with envy about how we wished we could tear down Route 40 at a hundred miles an hour. Yet the last time we talked (quietly) about Shorty, was just after he was killed by crashing his Chevy into a stone wall next to a Glasgow church. At this writing the damaged wall, with its dislodged, contrite fieldstones, can still be seen.

          One time, while we were all standing around on the corner, being simple as usual, a man in a shiny new Ford drove past us up George Street. As he passed he glanced over at us assembled boys. He continued on until he was about thirty feet beyond us. Then he slammed on his brakes and backed up furiously until he was just next to us. He then flung open his car door to the hinges’ limits and stared at us. At that point I recognized him as Harry Alston, the superb dancer at our Friday night events. I was amazed at the transformation of his appearance. Now, Instead of that confident expression of pleasure and serenity on his face, there glared at us a distorted one of utter anguish and contempt.

He then swaggered a few steps towards us (at this someone whispered, “Uh oh; it’s Harry again.”). Then, in a raucous voice, Harry would shout, “I can whip all of you. I can take all of you at once, or take you one at a time. And, if I beat you, I’ll thank you. And if you beat me I’ll still thank you.” We boys were all quiet standing there and kind of glancing furtively at each other. “Didn’t you all hear me,” he yelled. And, as he swayed back and forth swinging his arms, his car, with its door still swung open to its limit, started drifting backwards ever so slowly down George Street (the emergency brake must have been only partially engaged). And Harry, paying not the slightest attention to his moving car, shouted again, “All of you! I’ll trounce all of you! And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me, I’ll still thank you.”

All this time his car was creeping down towards the canal barrier where the lift bridge used to be. After a few more taunts, he would finally notice it moving and get in and jerk up the brake, with the door still gaping open. Stumbling out, he lurched back to confront us. “What’s the matter with you heroes?” he roared. “I’ll whip each one of you at a time. And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me I’ll still thank you.” Temple, one of the new boys in town, called sheepishly, “But I don’t know you, Bud.” To this an older boy half whispered, “You stoop. What’s wrong with you? Shut up!” Soon after that Harry called us heroes again. Then he went through his harangue once more before he slumped into his car, slammed the door and, with the emergency brake squealing, drove slowly up George Street.

Memories of Winters in old Chesapeake City, part 2

Part of the Chesapeake City Basin iced over, circa 1950. Note South Side ferry slip pilings. Area at far left is now site of the Chesapeake Inn.

Close-up of the Gotham ferry, circa 1946. The room on the top level had the smoke stack where riders huddled for warmth.

So, do you think it’s been a cold winter so far? Well, let me tell you what many of the older residents of Chesapeake City told me about the cold winters of years ago. Dick Titter starts it off with his recollection of the coldest day ever in our canal town. “I remember when the old Clayton house burned down. That's on Bohemia Avenue, where Birdy Battersby used to live. At that time that house was outstanding in Chesapeake City—a premier house so to speak; I was thirteen, and that night in1936 was the coldest on record for Chesapeake City; it was 16 degrees below zero. The weather had been bitter cold for quite a while, the canal jammed with ice and everything frozen solid. And I can remember going down there to see the house on fire.

“I was all bundled up and ready to see what was going on. Well, I was standing in front of Groom Steele's house—where Frank Ellwood used to live—watching the firemen with their hoses trying to do something with that fire. Well, Mr. Steele was out there with a bottle of whiskey, and he was giving shots to the firemen because it was so very cold. I was standing right next to them and I recall how their raincoats and boots were frozen stiff from the ice all over them.

“Johnny Walter, Albert Beiswanger, and Dick Borger were there, as I recall, and Johnny Walter had to go down to the basin there, by the town wharf, and cut a hole in the ice to get water for the fire engine. And Johnny told me that he took an ax and measured the thickness of the ice with the handle. He stuck the ax head down the hole and it just cleared the bottom of the ice. So that ice was three-and-a-half to four feet thick. But, anyway, that was a famous fire, because it burned down the nicest house in town.” Dick Titter

“I recall how cold the winters were in those days. The ferry would have to fight its way through the ice in the canal. To get warm, everybody in the upstairs room would huddle together up against the wall where the smoke stack was.” Gary Tatman

 “May Briscoe Kane used to talk about walking on the ice. She said that she got out on a piece of ice and it floated on out with the current. I don't know how she got back to shore.” Earl Schrader.

“We used to really have some ice in the canal when I was a kid. There used to be enormous chunks of ice floating in the canal, and I remember how Walter Basalyga used to ride those icebergs up and down the canal. He would jump on one down where he lived, near Basalyga's Wharf on the South Side—past the Chesapeake Boat company—and ride it up to school. And then, at night, if the tide was running the other way, he'd catch one and ride it home. I have a clear memory of seeing him out on an iceberg. He jumped from iceberg to iceberg.” Joe Hotra

“Daddy (Capt. Ed Sheridan) used to talk about when he was on the tugboats. He told me about one severely cold winter when they were frozen in the ice. It was so bad that they had to get the fuel to the tug by rolling barrels across the ice. They needed the fuel oil to keep the tugboat running and to keep them warm.” Jeanette Miklas

“One time, when the ice was bad, one of the pilots lost control of the big ferry. My father said that the boat ended up way up there by the government plant. In fact, he had to grab one of the Losten boys to keep him from jumping overboard. He was going to jump off on the ice and walk to shore.” Ted Lake

“I think the biggest thing was being late for school in the winter because the ice would take the ferry down past Schaefer's. All of us kids would get excited. We'd say, "Oh boy, we’re going to be late for school!" Becky May

“I recall the bad winters we had in the forties on our farm near North Chesapeake City. As a boy I used to cross over the lift bridge by hanging on to the back bumpers of cars in a sled when there was snow and ice on the road. We kids did all of those bad things. I also remember something special that happened on our farm in March of 1941. My mother was at the end of her third trimester, and went into labor during a blizzard. Until the snow drifted across the lane, my father figured we could easily negotiate it with our three-year-old '37 Chevy and get to the hospital six miles away at Elkton with time to spare.

      “We all got up, dressed, and my father helped my mother to the car, wrapped her in blankets in the rear seat, started the car, and proceeded down the lane for about one car length. But the car came to a halt against the drifted snow and would go no farther. At this point, my father got the tractor out of the carriage house and we chained the car to it. While my father tried to drag the car down the lane, I jumped in to steer it. The rubber tires on the tractor spun down through the gravel and clay, which had just started to get soft, but the tractor stayed where it was.

“We were running out of time so Dad told me to harness our two best horses. We hitched the two horses to the car with a double tree and chain to the front bumper. Again, I steered the car while my father drove the team. The horses pulled that car across the top of the drift as if it were a sled, on out to the main road. My father then drove my mother on to the hospital, and just after midnight on the Eighth of March 1941, our brother David was born.” Paul Spear.

            The great town of Rising Sun sometimes had difficult winters also. Don Gifford recalls an especially big snowfall: “When I was five years old we had a snow drift that was as high as our barn. That was at about10 p.m. and by the morning the drift had blown off a bit but was still about 12 feet high. My brothers and sisters and I dug a bunch of tunnels all through that enormous drift.”

            Norman Astle, a nearby Rising Sun farmer, remembers hearing older folks talk about driving horses down the Susquehanna river from Port Deposit to Havre de Grace. “Sometimes,” he recalls, “after a bad blizzard we had to leave the farm by taking down the pasture fence and making a passage-way across the field with our tractor and loader. In fact, when we moved here in January of 1954, we had to use the tractor to pull the truckload of furnishings up to the farm house. Moving in and securing our small dairy herd was quite an order for a day or two.”

            I have a feeling that I’ve chilled you to the bone by having you read all this about those bitter-cold winters. And so, in contrast, I’d better tell you about the hottest summer we ever had when I was a boy on our farm. That summer it was hot. How hot was it? It was so hot one afternoon that both of my father’s fields of popcorn started popping and blowing up into the sky. And then, when it began falling back to earth, our poor chickens thought it was snow and froze in their tracks. It was bad. We had to take them into the kitchen to thaw them out. Well, impressionable reader, I sure hope that you’ve now heated up a bit and are warmly looking forward to my next week’s story on facebook.

Winter Memories in Chesapeake City

Memories of Winters gone by in Chesapeake City, part 1

The Lift Bridge with the canal filled with ice, circa 1940.

The clear ice of Bunker Hill Pond, with Liane Hazel Kropp in top skating form

In some ways it’s nice that our winters in the 21st Century are not nearly as cold as the ones I remember in the early and mid-20^th century. But in a way our warmer winters are not nearly as much fun. I recall how we used to wait impatiently for the temperature to drop so we could ice skate on the Back Creek mill pond and especially on the Bunker Hill pond. That was back in the 1940s through the 1970s. The Bunker Hill pond was a wonderful place to skate. It was about 50 yard wide and 300 yards long, with over-hanging trees and, at the far end, an array of cattails interspersed with muskrat houses.

We played ice hockey with old soda cans and tree branches. Our toes would be numb from the cold until we warmed them next to the inevitable bonfire. Some times, when we skated down towards the end, we’d be the first to arrive there, and the ice would be clear and smooth as glass. At times, when we least expected it, the ice would emit a prolonged crack, with an eerie, hollow, echoing sound. And I would think, “Wow! I hope it doesn’t break through.” There were also frozen side streams to explore, always with a stimulating sense of adventure. It’s so different now; instead of a pond we have to go to an indoor rink and skate around in circles.

Many of the senior citizens whom I talked to over the last ten years also remember those icy winters of long ago and have told me about them. One person talked about how her grandfather used to race his horse and sleigh on the frozen canal. Another told about playing “crack the whip” on the ice and the time her father drove his car out over a pond. Still another explained how his father had to shovel snow off the Chesapeake City lift bridge so it would rise to let a ship pass through the canal. The span was piled so high with snow that it wouldn’t lift.

What follows are other memories by Chesapeake City folks who recall those harsh winters: “I remember how we used to bring our sleds to school and, after eating a quick lunch, we bundled up and took our sleds across the field as far away as we could. Our teacher, Miss Ferguson, had a large hand bell and she used to ring it at 12:50. Of course, we could never hear it! So she would bundle up and come across the field to get us. Several times, as I recall, we pulled her back to the schoolhouse on a sled.” Miriam Burris

“We used to ice skate on the Back Creek Mill Pond. Sometimes we'd skate right out here on the canal. When the locks were here the canal was all fresh water, and when it froze up the iceboats would come up and break up the ice so the barges could get through. Then, the next day, we'd go out and skate up and down where they had been. There were big chunks sticking out because of being broken up, but we'd skate around them. There were times when we'd skate down Back Creek almost as far as Welsh's Point.” Walter Cooling

“In the wintertime I would walk out on the ice. My father told me that years ago the ice would be so thick that you could walk to Baltimore.” Grason Stubbs. “I recall one time in the winter when the government had a big steam tug called the Deland, and they would come over and hook on to that ferry and tow her across the canal in the ice. The Deland would break up the ice as she went, drop the ferry off in close as it could to the slip, work her way around, and then push the ferry up into the slip.” Morrison Watson

 “I grew up in Port Herman and I can remember when the old steamers used to come up from Baltimore when the river froze over. One time a side wheeler came up as far as the Town Point wharf, and she would ride up on the ice until the weight of her would break through. Well, one day she rode up there and the ice didn’t break; she sat there for two weeks. They had to carry food out to the crew. My father used to say that he rode a team of horses across the ice there. Years ago, that’s how thick the ice got.” Frank Ulary

“I remember when the steamer, Annapolis, used to come up to break up the ice. It was an old side wheeler. I was just a teenager at the time, and in 1934, the year I graduated from high school, the canal was frozen over. We used to walk across the ice, right there from below the school to Schaefer’s.” Albert Clark. “Now, talking about ice, I remember when my brother pulled me up the canal on a sled, up to Schaefer’s from Hog Creek, which was down below the old Burnt House. That was back in 1934 when the canal was frozen over.” Pete Swyka. “One time we were late getting to school because the ferry had trouble getting through the ice in the canal, but when the ice got too bad it couldn't run at all. I remember taking pictures of the ships stuck in the ice. They brought ice-breakers up when it was that bad.” Merritt Collins, Sr.

“My grandfather Pyle had built an icehouse near Court House Point. He dug it into the North Bank, which kept ice solid for a long while. He walled it up with logs on top of one another. He then ran a long chute down the bank right out onto the frozen river. Then he took a long rope and a set of ice tongs and went out on the river and sawed a huge chunk of ice. He hooked the ice tongs into it, ran the other end of the rope through a hole in the back of the icehouse, and had a horse pull it all the way up into the icehouse.” Ralph Pyle

“I came to live in Chesapeake City in the winter of 1936, and there was so much ice that the canal was completely closed; no vessels could get through here. As a matter of fact, a tug sank in there trying to break the ice. I walked across the canal that winter.” Harold Lee. “The thing I recall best is how we used to ice skate on Mallory Toy’s fish pond. We'd walk or ride our bikes out there and skate all day. It was nice because you were protected from the wind in there because it was low and surrounded by trees. I also walked across the canal on the ice one winter. I started down there by the old lift bridge and walked straight across to Schaefer's. Winters were cold back then. I used to skate all around in the basin in those days.” Cliff Beck

        Oh yeah, it certainly was cold back in those days. I recall one of those bitter mornings when our cow was nearly frozen in her stall. When we milked her, instead of the milk tumbling into the pail it came down as icicles and we had to snap off the squirts. We had a devil of a time churning butter that evening. But it was especially hard on our laying hens. Why, every evening we’d have to place hot water bottles in their nests so we’d have eggs for breakfast instead of ice cubes. Well, anyway, I’m certainly sorry, imaginative reader, if I’ve made you shiver from reading these cold winter tales. But I know you’ll thaw out and get cozy when you curl up with my next week’s story on facebook.