I remember the stench. It was enough to drive you out of the shack. It was worse than smelly old socks. You never forget it!
As a kid growing up in Plymouth there was a small wooden shack about the size of a small living room located at the end of Main Street. It was next to the Mullet River. Ice skaters would use it to change from street shoes into their skates. It was a refuge when you got cold while ice skating. It had wooden floors and wooden benches all scarred by sharp skates sliding across them. In the middle of the shack was a wood burning pot stove.that was always stoked and hot. A lot of kids would come in from skating and put their snow packed mittens on top of the stove to warm them up. That is what stunk! The melting snow along with the smoldering knit mittens produced a smell that is awful. You never forget it. You would think the kids that put their mittens on the stove would learn and never do it again. But no! They did it over, and over and over.
The shack was managed by Harry Otterman. He wore oversized bib overalls along with an old woolen shirt. He was employed by the City and probably on social security. He chewed snuff. He had a small concession counter for soda, candy and popcorn. He shuffled around the shack from around 10 AM to 10 PM. He had seen the seamier side of life.
The shack sometimes attracted the more privledged people from “up on the hill” but mostly it brought in the more sordid types like Arlos Shelton. It was a small town “melting pot”.
There was also a “checker board” game available to while away the time. I remember playing checkers for hours because the rule was the winner kept playing and the losers gave way to the next challenger. Of course I kept winning. We would have contests to determine the “Checker King of the Ice Shack”. Now there is a title that every resident of Plymouth yearned for.
Because Harry Otterman worked for the city, the snow plows were always available to make sure the ice was cleared. A rule of thumb was that the minimum ice thickness to support a person had to be 2 inches and I think it took 4-5 inches for the shack to remain open. Music blared from several outside speakers mounted next to the spotlights on top of the shack. There were no “tapes” or CD’s in those day. There was a record player with 45 RPM small records that blasted out songs like Blue Danube or Rock Around the Clock.
Lots of games were played on the ice. Hockey was available to the nerds. Red Rover, Red Rover was played by the masses of kids when the rink was busy. Then there were the guys that would steal the hats or scarf’s of the girls they liked and they would playfully tease the girls by keeping the apparel away. How stupid was that?
When I reached my junior in high school I was told to stop skating. The basketball coach didn’t want his players ice skating because he felt it affected jumping ability. I guess the theory was that ice skaters had to have rigid ankles to a skate effectively. That rigid ankle prevented vertical leaping ability. I think it was a crock of baloney and I never altered my skating routines. Now Michael Jordan? That is another story. He should not have ice skated.
Living in downtown Plymouth, I spent many hours at the ice shack. There will always be the nostalgic smell of the wood stove, a game of checkers and that stench of burning mittens.
The home of Bob and Mary Steger is located across the mullet river from the shack. I think if you look out the rear window of the Steger’s home you can still see the shack (I think it is till there).
Love,
Dad