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January / February 2025 Vol. 208 │ No. 1 ISSN #0034-3137
EDITORIAL STAFF
Editor/Publisher
Mary Y. Cronley refrigerationmag@gmail.com (404) 819-5446
Senior Staff Writer Joe Cronley cronley.joe@gmail.com (404) 295-5712
Art Direction
Markurious Marketing hello@markurious.com (678) 439-6534
Safety reasons storebought bagged ice isn’t worth the buy
ADVERTISING, SUBSCRIPTIONS, ACCOUNTS
Mary Y. Cronley
Editor/Publisher refrigerationmag@gmail.com (404) 819-5446
Established as ICE in 1906, Refrigeration Magazine™ is published thirteen times a year, including the Annual Buyer's Guide.
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Copyright © 2025 by REFRIGERATION Magazine™. All rights reserved.
CONVENTIONS
KEITH Sponsors USCC Conference
Passings
IIt is with heavy hearts that we share the loss of cherished members of the ice community. Their contributions, friendship, and dedication to our industry will never be forgotten. Please join us in honoring their memory and celebrating the lasting impact they have made on all of us, especially Raymond South, longtime Keith Walking Floor associate, who recently passed away. Raymond dedicated more than 20 years to KEITH, representing the cotton and ice industries with exceptional skill and unwavering commitment. Throughout his career, Raymond made a lasting impact, particularly within the ice industry, where he was deeply involved and highly respected. In 2021, Raymond’s outstanding contributions to the ice industry were celebrated when he was inducted into the IPIA Hall of Fame. This honor followed his earlier recognition by the Southern Ice Exchange in 2016, further underscoring the widespread respect and admiration he garnered from his peers.Raymond was not just a colleague but a true friend to many of us. His warm personality, kindness and dedication to his work will be remembered. Our thoughts and condolences are with Raymond’s family, friends and loved ones.
"Raymond was not just a colleague but a true friend to many of us. His warm personality, kindness and dedication to his work will be remembered.”
Polar Temp will continue to manufacture and sell ice merchandisers that use R-448A refrigerant for most of the 2024 calendar year. R-448A complies with regulatory mandates.
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Isn’t Worth the Buy
Grabbing that last-minute bag of packaged ice from the store may not be as handy as you think it is. It’s important to know that, while packaged ice is considered a food product by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA), not all ice found in stores is safe to consume. Despite the convenience and widespread trust in packaged ice, you shouldn’t assume that it’s all handled the same; unfortunately, the safety requirements for bagged ice implemented by the FDA are not always carefully followed.
This deviation from the standards makes it easier for the ice to become vulnerable to bacteria and contamination. Unfortunately, this can result in the presence of harmful microorganisms and bacteria such as E. coli or salmonella. In fact, a 2016 study from California proved that a selection of packaged ice samples contained fungus, mold, and infectious staphylococci. This is one major reason why ice that is not 100% compliant to the recommended standards may be worth skipping out on. So, the next time you want to get creative with chilled drinks, you’ll be better off choosing top quality ice.
Other things to watch out for with store-bought ice. To protect yourself or family from bagged ice health risks, it’s better to exclusively purchase ice that has been approved by the International Packaged Ice Association (IPIA). Looking out for the IPIA accreditation label on packaged ice will
guide you towards a product that is safe and approved. The list of IPIA members is free to view online and will make it easier to choose a manufacturer that prioritizes safe practices.
What about when you don’t see an IPIA approved packaged ice brand at the store? First off, don’t bet on cold temperatures as a protection against pathogens and bacteria. The myth that the freezing temperatures prevent germs from flourishing has been debunked; not only can bacteria such as E. coli and shigella survive on ice cubes, but they can actually multiply.
Another recommendation is opting for spring water or purified water for your bagged ice needs. These options are considered much safer to consume and are often required by the FDA to go through a thorough filtration process before being sold. Not only do you not need to fret about impurities and foodborne illnesses in your ice, but you can even rest assured that spring water’s natural filtration processes (via clay or sandstone filters) will reduce the likeliness of chemical infiltration.
We’re excited to be a Turquoise Sponsor at the USCC Conference! Stop by our booth 516 to discover how KEITH’s unloading solutions streamline compost operations and boost efficiency. See you there! #USCC #Compost #MaterialHandling #Sustainability
Remembering these great men in ice
Edmund Klotz
It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of Edmund Klotz, President of Abregel, on January 1, 2025. Edmund was a dedicated partner of the IPIA and a steadfast leader of our chapter and affiliate, Abregel, in Brazil for many years. His unwavering commitment to the packaged ice industry and his contributions to our global community will be deeply missed. Our heartfelt condolences go out to Edmund’s family and friends during this difficult time.
Raymond South
We are deeply saddened by the passing of Raymond South on January 15, 2025. A longtime IPIA member who was retired from KEITH Manufacturing Co., Raymond was a mainstay within the IPIA and a vibrant presence at our conventions. He was honored with the Bill Berkoski Advocacy Award in 2018 and inducted into the IPIA Hall of Fame in 2021. Our thoughts are with the South family during this difficult time. Raymond’s legacy and contributions to the industry will not be forgotten.
The phone slammed down. One of the last land lines, the noise echoed through the small office. Not yet to the point of panic, Wilson was close. That small itch in the back of his mind was growing. Never a dull moment, His brain scrambled for last-minute options. What a glitch. A stick in the road he did not need. There were only five more hours to dusk and still no dry ice. How is it, he thought, that a man can plan so far ahead, and then have something like this happen? It should have been here two hours ago. It wouldn’t be the same without it.
Shoot! It’ll ruin everything.
He took a deep breath and glanced at his watch.
All right, don’t fret. It’ll be here.
“Hey Boss, how are ya?”
Henry looked through the open door at his long-time employer and decided not to press the issue. The man was, as to be expected, distraught. He had never known anyone so much into a single day of the year. For two weeks prior to the special day, half the crew was
Mockingbird Lane Chapter 1
pulled off the bagging lines and trucks to help prepare for the big event. Henry was one of them. He was after all, the most experienced at this. He had been with the company for over fifteen years. Gauging with expertise the mood his boss was in, Henry tried to soften the moment. “Everything else is ready, W.C. Whenever you want to make the final walk through, it’s ready.” All he got for his effort was a nervous nod.
Wilson Clark loved Halloween. The memories from his childhood had not dulled over the years. How could it? He incorporated them into a three hundred and sixty-five day a year holiday. His passion for old horror movies was legendary.
Three black cats, all males, called the ice plant their home. Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Vincent Price, and Bela Lugosi posters hung in his office. Wilson loved Halloween so much that when he bought
the land on the outskirts of town to build his new and greatly improved packaged ice plant, he talked to the city and was allowed to name the road. It was an easy decision. Mocking Bird Lane. He built the road and the ice plant on the previously unused seven acres. Five of the six buildings he had erected on the site were used year around. The 2nd largest was a large red brick dwelling that housed his ice manufacturing plant. The 3rd largest was his home. It sat back a few hundred yards from the rest of the buildings, nestled among several large oak trees. Two of the structures contained ice storage freezers and another, his maintenance garage. The most
interesting building, as well as the largest, at just under 95,000 square feet, 1313 Mocking Bird Lane, was only used in the month of October.
A third-generation iceman, Wilson was well known in the small city of Slater. A much larger area, well beyond the boundaries of the county, knew of Wilson’s Haunted Castle of Horror. Every year, children of all ages, including adults that never lost this part of their childhood, visited the three thousand square foot wood and stone structure that contained several rooms of horror.
“How’s W.C.?” Wendy Clark asked Henry as he walked out of the ice plant and towards the “Haunted Castle.”
“As nervous as always but a little more so this time.”
“Still no dry ice, huh?” Wilson’s niece asked.
“No.”
“What did Carbonic say?”
“Driver left over four hours ago.” Henry looked to the favorable clear sky and then to Wendy. “The ding-a-ling forgot to bring his cell phone. They can’t get a hold of him.” Henry glanced at his watch and whistled in disgust. “The Boss is messing his shorts over this.”
The two walked towards the tremendously large structure built to look like a medieval castle. It was located within a large feudallooking, wrought iron fence that had cost Wilson Clark a pretty penny to build. The vertical pieces within the fence were over eight feet long and had pointed tips.
It served two functions. One obvious purpose was to make the castle look more forbidding and the secondary function, though not thought about when the fence was built, was to serve as a deterrent for anybody that thought they would like to visit the castle, uninvited. Three large brindle Great Danes that patrolled the area, proved to be the only security ever needed. Wilson loved the old classic, Hound of the Baskervilles.
The sound of dogs barking snapped Wilson from his thoughts. He pushed off from his desk and turned an ear towards the sound. Normally, in the evening hours, between 8 P.M. and 9 P.M., Vincent, the largest of the Great Danes would begin howling with a few barks in between. Nobody could ever figure out why he did it. The veterinarian said that dogs were like people; they had their quirks too. A lovable dog, much more so than Wilson let on, his barking got the other two dogs started in as well. The ice plant owner looked at the big round clock on his office wall. It wasn’t even one-thirty yet. He frowned and got up from the chair.
What’s got those dogs going?
It was a beautiful fall day, not gloomy as he had hoped. He stepped outside.
For as long as he could remember, it was this time of the year, this day in particular, that brought his fondest memories. What was there not to like? He thought. Waking to crisp morning air, leaves blowing briskly in the wind as he walked the short
distance from the house to the ice plant, it was all nature’s way. And, it was the beginning of the holiday season with his favorite, Halloween, starting it all off. Always a giver, The Yule season found Wilson Clark donating time, money, foodstuffs, and toys for the kids, along with his delivery trucks to help transport them to those in need. Traditionally, he spent more on Christmas each year than he’d ever spent on Halloween, and Wilson always spent freely enhancing and promoting his costfree October thirty-first tours of the Haunted Castle.
W.C. drew in a deep breath of the fall air and for a moment, forgot his situation. It lasted a moment. The worrier that he was at this time of the year, he again dwelled and fretted over the dry ice not being delivered on time. For not the first time today he considered the cost and effort involved with making his own dry ice. The thought originally occurred roughly one hour and forty-five minutes ago; fifteen minutes past the time the fogproducing ice was to have arrived. It was too late to get any more ordered and the frantic calls already placed to the grocery stores proved futile. A lot of local Halloween parties had laid claim to whatever existing dry ice remained.
Wilson put his hands in his jean pockets and shuffled, head down, towards the kennel the Great Danes stayed in. It sat within a hostile-looking, wrought iron barrier, that sealed off the castle. The dogs were allowed to roam
within those grounds. The ice man treated them like royalty. Majestic animals, he always considered them kings among kings within the canine world.
Very smart, they were trained early on, and learned quickly, not take care of their business anywhere but the dirt and grass area that surrounded their kennel that itself, was fenced in with chain link. As an owner of the breed since his twentieth birthday, Wilson always thought they fit the mood of Halloween. Along with ghosts, ghoul, goblins, and other creatures of the night, his dogs, in his mind, always represented the spirit of October 31st. His passion for all things Halloween extended to way too many aspects of his life, some of his friends thought. But all agreed that W. C. was a great guy. His love for the holiday was something he had shared every year with the community since he was old enough to earn his own money. His haunted castle was, he thought, his greatest accomplishment, even more so than the continuing the reputation of a very successful ice production plant. A lot of research went into his passion, Re-watching every horror movie he could and reading for the umpteenth time his vast library of scary, gory, and delightfully graphic comic books and novels, his castle was indeed, an achievement worthy of self-praise. Not a vain man, his haunted mansion was an exception.
Wilson viewed his creation with a certain amount of pride
and a great deal of pleasure. A wide moat, filled with water, encircled the castle entirely. The drawbridge, had been his father’s idea. Medieval in its design, it portrayed that stay-out, defensive quality W.C. was going for. Its wooden deck, hinged on one edge, brought visitors past two stone guard rooms, one on each side of the entry way, and then through the gatehouse. On each corner of the property, twelve foot in diameter, stood stone towers, each twenty-four feet in height. An oak spiral staircase graced each tower, leading to the top. Narrow vertical slits in the stonework gave the castle’s defenders a better field of fire if ever under attack.
Wilson pumped his fist into the air as he gave himself a silent atta-boy. Everything was as perfect as he could make it. His life’s work; his masterpiece, a passion since childhood had brought joy and happiness, along with a few intended scares to thousands of children, along with most of their parents. Wilson’s Haunted Castle had been a must for countless families for over two decades. What started out as a creative, wide-eyed teenager’s fantasy grew into a spectacular display of an imagination gone wild. Together, along with several relatives and a spattering of employees, the castle had been built, added on to, and improved every year since it’s conception when Wilson was sixteen.
He smiled as his mind went back to that first pile of lumber his father had received in trade
for the use of a couple of his refrigerated delivery trucks. A third-generation ice-man, W.C. began working in his father’s ice plant as a small child. His mind, always on the move, pondered dueling with swords Count Dracula as he swept the floors of the bagging rooms; the broom handles, his weapon of choice.
Epic fights with the Wolfman occupied his thoughts as he carried boxes in from the supply rooms into the waiting arms of the ice baggers. Even as a child, the youngster understood that someday, the ice plant would be his to run. On cool fall days, the boy raced home from school to help his father with the monthly maintenance of all the machines and accessory equipment that always increased after the busy summer ice season slowed. Though they sold ice year around, the sales were heaviest during the heat of the hottest months.
Each room embellished with fake monsters, ghouls, witches and eerie screams and moans, had only one way in and one way out. For the younger children, a bell, that sounded exactly like the low-pitched bellowing gong used in The Adams Family television show, could be easily activated with a long-braided rope to alert the “cry-baby” staff to the dilemma so the child and their parents would be let out, if so desired.
Wilson looked up. Henry and Wendy walked towards him from the castle. Visiting past glories could wait. His longtime employee smiled as Wendy
put her arms around her uncle. His fondness for the boss was well known. W.C. hired him as a teenager still in school. Though his widowed mother worked hard to support her son and three young daughters, she struggled to make ends meet. A quiet, shy woman, Marci Kendrick, known for her kindness and devotion to her children, humbly, but gratefully accepted the affection W.C. heaped upon her family. The Wilson’s could not have their own children. Together they agreed to informally adopt the Kendrick children into their family. The kids wanted for nothing. Always welldressed, W.C. and his wife lavished upon the merriest of Christmases
Seeing the concern on the face of his boss, Henry stated with feigned optimism “It’ll be here, W.C., don’t worry so much.” Called W.C. by most of his friends and relatives, including his wife at times, he shook his head and grinned nervously. Wendy agreed. “I don’t know sweetie; it’s getting later every minute.”
Wendy kissed her uncle on the cheek and patted his back. “We just did a walk-through and it all looks good.”
Except for the dry ice, Wilson thought glumly as he watched them walk towards the ice plant.
Since his earliest memory, Halloween had captured his imagination. An avid horror flick fan, there was not a vintage movie of horror he had not watched. He was not crazy about the new wave of movies that had hit the big screen in the last twenty years or so; too much gore and sex. Writers
of horror in the last thirty years had succumbed to cheap movies and cheaper plots that kept newer generations of scare-flick fans entertained with lots of unneeded nudity, tons of blood, torn apart body parts and all too predictable endings. That was not horror in the classic sense; not in Wilson Clark’s opinion.
The “Haunted Castle of Horror” was built with many of his favorite goose-bump jumping movies in mind. Each flesh-curdling story his father told him as a child, usually around a campfire behind the old ice plant, complete with tense plots and twisted endings, fed Wilson’s appetite but always he lusted for more.
To look at him, you would have never guessed his passion. Barely six foot tall, just turning fifty, sandy-colored hair, and a gentle face with blue eyes that always seemed to smile, Wilson continued his walk to the dogs. Crossing the dirt road, he opened the wrought iron gate and shut it behind him. To the left, about twenty yards, stood the large, chain link dog run. As always, the gate to the run was open.
Vincent was the first of the dogs to greet him. Bela and Boris, brothers, came next. For a brief moment, Wilson forgot his anguish about the lack of dry ice and played with his “boys.” Something was wrong with Vincent he noticed immediately. Short black hair stood stiffly on his back. He’d look to Wilson and then to the castle. A low guttural grow emitted from him followed by a involuntarily whine.
Ears flattened and long black tail tucked, he exhibited anxiety that Wilson usually only saw during thunderstorms. None of the dogs were fond of those. But there was something else. What was it?
“What’s wrong, boy?”
The large, black Great Dane paced nervously while the other two dogs seemed oblivious to whatever troubled Vincent. Wilson turned towards the ice plant. Wendy and Henry were just entering. A quick thought to ask them if they knew what troubled Vincent was discarded as he saw the door close behind them.
“Hmph,” he grunted, patting Boris’s head. The castle was just ahead. He crossed over the functional wooden drawbridge that spanned the moat. Five foot deep and ten-foot across, just the site of it brought a small smile to his face. Skeletons obtained from a medical surplus store littered the bottom. Replicas of medieval weapons littered the moat floor. Swords, arrows and a large stone axe protruded out of some of the skeletons.
Walking past two stone guard rooms, one on each side of the entry way, and then through the gatehouse, he reached the great twin, wooden doors of the castle. Vincent, still on the other side of the moat, barked in earnest. Apparently very agitated now, he pawed at the ground and paced rapidly in semi-circles. Wilson shivered unconsciously, shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment. He reached for the large brass handles.
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SOUTHEAST (continued)
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