Grantville Gazette, Volume 40 (38 page)

Artificial refrigeration made inroads whenever the supply of natural ice was interrupted. The American Civil War stopped the shipment of New England ice to the heat-bedeviled South, which accordingly slipped two Carre ammonia-based refrigeration machines through the blockade. (David 274). The Southerners learned to appreciate the manufactured product, and continued to use it after the war was over.

In
Life on the Mississippi
(1883), Mark Twain says, "in Vicksburg and Natchez, in my time, ice was jewelry, none but the rich could wear it. But anybody and everybody can have it now" (Chap. 39). The change was the result of the local ice-factory; the one in Natchez made thirty tons a day, using an ammonia-based refrigeration system, and the ice sold for six or seven dollars a ton. That price wasn't low enough to shut out natural New England ice, but it did set a ceiling for the pricing of the northern product.

German WW I submarine activity disrupted the British-Norwegian natural ice trade, encouraging expansion of the artificial refrigeration capacity. (Blain 31). Artificial refrigeration had a stabilizing effect on the price of Norwegian ice in Britain, at least in locales that had their own icemaking equipment to compensate for the seasonality of the Norwegian supply. (Blain 27).

In order to break into California market, an artificial ice machine company paid the Alaska Ice Company on WoodyIsland not to ship its LakeTanignak ice to California. To make sure the moola kept coming, the Woody Islanders cut and stored ice each year. (Carlson 60).

However, the natural ice trade survived a surprisingly long time. In England, the "crystal ice" of Norway had an aesthetic edge, at least for table use, over the bubble-clouded artificial ice (Blain 40); some manufactured ice also looked "more like frozen milk than pure water." (David 278). The bubbles could be eliminated by water agitation but this added considerably to the cost.

Early icemaking machinery was unreliable, and leaks, fires and "explosions were not unusual." (Blain 41) In 1920, ammonia-based refrigeration was still considered a major risk factor by business insurers. (Freidberg 38).

The equipment was also large and expensive (relative to production capacity). The first household refrigerators had to have the machinery in the basement, piping the refrigerant up to the box in the kitchen (Id.).

Even at the time of WW I, there were serious problems with artificial ice: "It was still often tainted by ammonia; it still contained occasional drops of oil; and it could be no purer than the city water from which it was made." (Lawrence 260). Norwegian ice was still exported to England after WW I; there was a public distrust of manufactured ice, in part because of the use of ammonia as a refrigerant (David 243).

The expansion of artificial ice production capacity was slow (no doubt because of the initial cost and the public misgivings), which in turn meant that one couldn't rely on it alone. In 1911, the daily British consumption of ice was 2000 tons, and the manufacturing capacity only 500 (Blain 30).

Conclusion

There was once a saying, "as rare as snow in Egypt." (Forbes 115). But if a long-distance ice trade can be established in the new universe, the comforts of cold might not be rare there, or elsewhere in the civilized world, at all.

Author's Note:

Bibliography will be posted to
www.1632.org
, Gazette Extras.

****

Confessions of a Downmarket Writer Or The Death of Literary Snobbery (Please)

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

E-readers were the biggest selling Christmas gift in the United Kingdom in 2011, just like they were in the United States in 2010, and now our British cousins are worried. Not that digital will overtake print—that’s so American, so focused on the shop trade. No, our British cousins are worried that people will stop buying “good” books.

The Guardian
alone had two articles (that I saw) in January and February about the “downmarket trend” in e-books. Apparently, when no one is watching, the Brits prefer—gasp! horrors!—genre fiction.

That’s right. You read this correctly. The Brits download novels from Mills & Boon (romance novels, for the non-anglophile), and crime novels and, oh horror upon horrors, Christian fiction.

An article by a literary snob whom I’ve never heard of named Antonia Senior (really? Is that her name? Really?) titled “Ebook sales are driven by downmarket genre fiction” (
The Guardian
, February 5, 2012) worries that such downmarket fare will lead to the demise of the publishing industry. People will stop reading to impress and will start reading for pleasure.

How awful. The entire reading-to-impress industry, I mean, literary fiction, is doomed. At least according to Ms. Senior. She cites a study by
Publisher’s Weekly
and
Bowker
that show the first thing people buy when they get their ereader is—brace yourselves—literary fiction.

Then she clarifies: “But this figure includes classics. Most new Kindle owners buy an avalanche of classics in their initial excitement.”

Honestly, I can’t see why that’s a problem. I noticed the same trend here over Christmas when the Kindle free bestseller list was dominated by such terrifyingly bad writers as Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, and Jane Austen. (Wait! Two of them are British! They must be upmarket.)

But Ms. Senior dismisses this trend with a single question. “Are they read?” she asks. Apparently, she wants us to believe that new Kindle readers buy classics to impress and then go on to buy things they’ll actually read.

And what will they actually read? The next item in the
Publisher’s Weekly
list, clocking in at 19% is science fiction. Oh, dear. Oh, no. The world as we know it is coming to an end. And yes, I typed that cliché. Which shows what a downmarket writer I am.

She continues with her little snobbish analysis with this lovely observation: “The reading public in private is lazy and smutty. . . . Publishers say that there is little real change going on, just substitution: those who buy genre books start buying digitally instead. I’m  not so sure it’s wise to underestimate the boundless idiocy of the unobserved reading public.”

I shook my head as I read the entire article, thinking What’s with this woman? Then, as I searched for the link for a friend who wanted to see such snobbishness on view, I found a second article by someone named Robert McCrum (Okay. Now I’m convinced these names are made up. Maybe by Dickens himself).

In “It doesn’t matter if it’s downmarket or digital—it all helps sell books,” (
The Guardian
, January 2, 2012), he writes, “Literature and snobbery are intertwined like the holly and the ivy. . . . Books are vehicles of aspiration and self-promotion (who hasn’t rearranged their coffee table before a dinner party?)”

To answer his question, um, that would be me. With one caveat. I move things off all table-like surfaces so that people have places to set down their plates. Of course, that could be because I’m downmarket. I don’t use fine china and silver at my dinner parties. My money is tied up in books, not impressive silverware collections.

Yes, I’m making fun of our British cousins here, but they’re just admitting something I’ve been complaining about for years. Literary snobbery. Unlike Mr. McCrum and Ms. Senior, I find literary snobbery abhorrent. I read what I read when I read it and where I want to. Yeah, I’ve been embarrassed by the occasional book cover—not because I’m reading genre fiction, but because the cover is startlingly bad. (My eyes still haven’t recovered from those Fabio covers of the 1990s.)

I think literary snobbery is harmful to reading and to readers. While I miss getting on a plane and seeing what my fellow flyers read, I don’t miss the sideways comment from a superior friend—“You really read that stuff?”—or, worse, the snide remark by a bookseller—“So, you’re the kind of person who reads that crap.” (And yes, a bookseller actually said that to me. I never darkened his doorstep again.)

What these literary snobs don’t seem to understand is how classics get made. Classics become classics when enough readers read them, and remember them long enough to pass them on to friends, family, and the next generation. Who will our children’s children read one hundred years from now? I’d bet on J.K. Rowling. She sold enough books that readers will remember her a decade from now, and when those readers have children, those children will read Harry Potter books. They’re timeless and they’re fun.

You know, like Dickens, that horrible downmarket writer whose work sold better than anyone else’s in the 19th century. Back when he was writing, the literary snobs considered him downmarket. Just like they considered Jane Austen downmarket. And Mark Twain, well, he was just a humor writer. Very downmarket as well.

Too bad their books are forgotten. Too bad no one reads them any more. Too bad they’re not literary fiction.

Oh, wait! They are! At least, according to our snobby friend, Ms. Senior. Poor woman. What she’s really lamenting is the loss of opportunity to sneer at her inferiors. First music went digital, so you couldn’t peruse someone’s record collection to see how terrible their taste in music was. Now paper books are vanishing, so you won’t know if the person in the seat next to you on the plane is a troll or thinking human.

The next thing you know, people will stop using real silver at dinner parties.

What is the world coming to?

Oh, heck. I think I’ll find my e-reader and sink into a lovely volume of . . . um . . . something much more impressive than science fiction. If only I can figure out what that is.

****

Hire Education

Written by Ronald D. Ferguson

Guido Gaglio knocks on the door a second time, more firmly than the first. A scraggly dweeb opens the door. He looks like a guy who would hock his education and then fall behind on the payments. The dweeb cranes his neck to look up at Guido.

"Dr. Maurice Jennings?" Guido adjusts his tie. His blue suit tightens across his shoulders. He stretches his neck and arches his chin to relieve the tight discomfort about his throat. Next time he'll buy a fifty-centimeter collar.

"That's me, Big Dude, I don't need any life insurance, electronic magazines, or missionary spiels." The little man has the look of a ferret. He holds a TV remote in his hand. His wall monitor displays the friendly financing banner for PIE, Personalized Instant Education. No credit checks.

"My name is Guido, and this is my associate, Juan." Guido points to his mustached companion who grins like he don't need no stinkin' badge. Sweat beads on Juan's forehead as if it fears to roll down the acne-pocked face.

"Yeah? Hurry up, Dude." The TV distracts the ferret, and he ups the volume with his remote. "I got stuff to do."

"Big Willy sent me and Juan to find out why you didn't make no payment on your education loan for the last six months. Still
Doctor
Jennings, right? You still got the collateral? The title goes with the education, ya know."

"Oh that." Dr. Jennings pales. "Yeah, I'm real sorry. I've been out of work since January, but this fall I start teaching chemistry at the local university. Tenure track. I get my first check at the end of September, so I can start—"

"We was afraid you might say that." Guido's heard such excuses before. "Aint nobody hiring no new teachers. I already checked with the university. They don't know you from Shinola."

Juan pulls a baseball bat from behind his back and smacks it against his open palm a couple of times. He smiles and squints.

The dweeb backs away from the door and searches his pockets like he's looking for misplaced change. All he drags out are car keys. He looks at the keys, then his eyes beg Guido. "Please. What are you going to do to me?"

Guido applies a one-handed push to Jenning's chest, and the dweeb stumbles backwards until he falls across the couch. Juan hefts the bat with an easy wrist rotation and follows Guido into the apartment.

"Unless you got a better suggestion, Dr. Jennings." Guido assumes his practiced look of sincere disappointment. "I'm gonna have Juan repossess your education."

****

Rather than repo Jennings's education, Guido takes the little weasel's classic T-bird for the missed loan payments. Juan complains about the bargain when Guido opens the door of the convertible.

"You crazy, Guido? That patsy is behind three grand on a forty G balance. Big Willy ain't gonna like you taking no red jalopy for the payments. Big Willy likes cash."

"Red car, huh? Just my style." Guido slips the title transfer into his pocket and slides behind the wheel. The fit is tight, but with the top down, the feel is open. His forehead juts above the windshield. He imagines the wind through his hair. "This is a classic. Not in great shape, but likely worth twenty large ones after I fix it up. I'll give Big Willy the three grand in back payments plus an extra G for interest. That'll make him happy. For four thousand bucks I get a car with potential. I sink some hard work and a few grand more and I got a collector's piece. What's the problem, amico? Can't you see I'm ready for something different?"

"I don't like it." Keeping a firm grip on his bat, Juan folds his arms across his chest. "And Big Willy ain't gonna like it neither."