Article by By Frank Sedwick
I grew up in a row house
in Ballmer (or “Baltimore” to the uninitiated). We did not have the marble steps
typical of a former era; instead, every identical house in my block on Lyndhurst
Street had a front porch, whose deck was the site of animated Monopoly games in
the summer and drifting snow in the winter.
Seems it snowed a lot
there in the 1930s. Blizzards heaped crested drifts onto the streets and yards
and porches, yet for some reason topped the porch roofs neatly and evenly. Snow
plows eventually cleared the streets, but residents of every dwelling were
responsible for their own portion of sidewalk, along the street and up through
the yard to the porch.
When it snowed during the
day, I would hurry home from school emerging quickly with snow scoop, coal
shovel and broom over my shoulder to be among the first to ring doorbells to
seek snow-removal jobs. If it snowed on a weekend, that was a bonanza, for I
could work all day and sometimes share the income with helpers. After all, there
were regular customers to be serviced, but with proper timing.
Many of my competitors
solicited business while it was still snowing. Be the snowfall deep or light, I
tried to delay until the clouds passed. I had come to understand that most
people did not want to pay twice for snow removal, except in the case of a
protracted snowfall, during which they, the milkman, mailman, and newspaper boy,
needed access.
The price of each job
depended on the depth of the snow and its degree of compaction by foot traffic.
This was during the Depression, and the price also reflected the times: 10 to 15
cents for an average snowfall with no drifts; 25 to 35 cents after a blizzard
(plus an occasional 5-cent tip from Mr. Brown or some cookies from Mrs. Jones).
I can recall one snowfall as high as my 12-year-old waist, the drifts up to my
shoulders, when I lost business and goodwill because of a lack of time to serve
all my customers.
A corner house with its
more than double length of sidewalk was considered a plum that brought 35 to 50
cents for an average snowfall. Certain corners were zoned for small stores,
barber shops and doctors’ offices.
One frigid Friday, after a
considerable snowfall, I learned a valuable lesson from Dr. X, whose office was
located on the corner of Wildwood Parkway and Edmondson Avenue. (I remember his
name, but would rather not record it here.)
Dr. X was new in the
neighborhood. I rang his bell because his sidewalks were still blanketed in
mid-afternoon, suggesting he had been overlooked by my competitors. I wanted to
give him a good price, hoping to enroll a new customer with a corner location.
I: Wouldja like your snow shoveled, sir?
Dr. X: How much?
I: 35 cents.
Dr. X: I want to see nothing but pavement.
I: I’ll give the sidewalks and your porch a final sweeping with my broom.
Dr. X: How about the drifts around my car there in the street?
I: (Not having even suspected a car hidden under the drifts…) That should
be 10 cents extra.
Dr. X: No, 5 cents.
I: Well, all right.
Dr. X: Let me know when you have finished.
Bang went the front door,
and he was gone. I started to work on the porch, then the steps. When I got to
the sidewalk, my scoop did not scrape any cement, and I soon guessed the reason.
It had snowed about three or four days earlier, and apparently Dr. X had failed
to have his sidewalk cleaned then. The snow had been compressed by footsteps,
then melted and frozen again, leaving a glaze of ice under the new snow. My
theory was confirmed when I began to find patches of ashes on the glaze. It was
customary in those days to scatter buckets of ashes on icy walkways; it was more
effective than sand (unavailable in the winter) and cheaper than salt.
Anyhow, a deal was a deal,
and I was obligated to chip away at the ice with my coal shovel and then
excavate the car. It was a far more strenuous undertaking than I had imagined.
After three hours of nonstop work (for the equivalent of an hour and a
half of pay), my young body was sore. I had, however, fulfilled the terms of the
contract and felt sure the new customer would be impressed.
I surveyed the bare
sidewalk, added a few finishing touches, gathered my tools, and dragged myself
up the steps to the entrance. The sign posted on the door below the office hours
said “COME IN,” but obviously that was for patients, none of whom had entered or
left while I was working. So I rang the doorbell, as I had done earlier, and was
greeted this time by an unsmiling wife or secretary who knew nothing of the
contract. The doctor was busy, she said, and, after a glance at my wet shoes,
snowy stockings and corduroy knickers, asked would I please wait on the porch.
Exhausted, I dropped down
onto a step, arms around my knees in the bitter cold, my inner garments soaked
with perspiration and now cooling with my inactivity and the settling of the
sun. Fully 20 minutes later, the woman opened the door and handed me 35 cents,
whereupon I reminded her of the extra 5 cents for the car.
Another wait—easily 10
minutes—and she reappeared with a $5 bill. “Four ninety-five change, please.”
That was a lot of money, and I did not have it. She went back inside and soon
emerged with four pennies and the claim that neither she nor the doctor had any
more change. “Come back tomorrow,” she said, “for the other penny.”
I never did return, never
again saw her or the doctor. It was dark by the time I reached home, five blocks
distant, my tools vibrating in unison with the shivers of the shoulder on which
they rested.
“Where have you been?”
inquired my irate mother, already tugging at my wet clothes. I recounted the
story as best I could.
“Take a hot bath right
away,” she commanded. And then, softening, “I’ll warm up your supper.”
I did as instructed, but
had no appetite, a fever being upon me, so I was further directed to bed. Lying
there, still trembling under a mountain of blankets before sleep overcame me, I
ruminated upon the Dr. X episode. In my childish way, I became aware for the
first time that adults could not be trusted solely on the basis of their being
adults—it was a new and sobering outlook.
I knew how to handle my
peers, who might take advantage when and where they could, but I had assumed
grown people to be more scrupulous in their dealings. Since that experience, I
have held an aversion to the Scrooges of the world.
But this is not the end of
the story. As a young collector of U.S. coins, I always examined my pocket
change. Feeling better, I rose around noon the next day. I picked up the
doctor’s coins from where I had emptied my pockets and found the date 1909 and
the mintmark S on one of the four pennies. Turning it over, I stared at a clear
VDB above the bottom rim. Instantly it was the rarest coin in my little
collection and, even then, worth far more than a whole day of shoveling snow.
Fate had decreed justice
and even added a bonus, but left to my own initiative the punishment of the
doctor. I made sure to pass the word along to all my young colleagues, so the
next time it snowed not one would offer him their services. I learned later,
from a kid who lived on the doctor’s block, that the doctor had had to employ
grown men, who charged twice as much as we did.
Life went on. I grew up,
attended high school and college, went to war, married, earned a living, reared
a family, and lived in various parts of the country, though never again in my
native city.
Recently my present
residence was burglarized. Although things of greater value were safely stored
at the bank, we did lose silverware, some of my wife’s jewelry, and my old
Whitman folders of U.S. coins culled from circulation so long ago and retained
more as a memento than an asset.
Anyone who has ever filled
those old folders knows the imprecision in the size of the coin slots, which
causes some pieces to fall out. The thieves had snatched the blue folders away
hurriedly. But there, on the bottom of a drawer under scattered papers, was one
coin—the 1909-S VDB cent of 56 years ago, as if demanding its story to be told.
