Ice Lady’s House On the other side of town is where an ice lady lives. We used to go see her on the Fourth of July. She’d take us out back to the big silver box with a walk-in door and give my father a block of ice. He’d carry it home with tongs. Down the cellar it went and into a bucket where he wrapped it up in burlap till he was ready to chip it apart with a hammer and pick. A trip to the ice lady meant “PARTY.” After the big parade where I rode my bicycle covered in red, white and blue crepe paper, the aunts and uncles came and we all sang and played instruments and ran around sticking watermelon down each other’s pants. The ice lady lived alone. For many years she walked up and down Main Street in black pedal pushers with a white shirt. None of the other ladies in Hatboro ever dreamed of wearing pants, so she was the talk of the town for not only being so strong and “independent,” but they said it was shameful for her to go out in public dressed like that. I liked the way her curly black hair bounced on her shoulders as she strode up the sidewalk, totally sure about where she was going. I also liked the fact that she could lift more blocks of ice at once than any of the men in town could lift, try as they might to best her.