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In 1930, many American farm families were still living in a world that would have felt familiar to their grandparents: electricity had reached most cities and larger towns, but in the countryside rural electrification lagged badly, with well under 15% of farms wired at the start of the decade, and in large parts of the Midwest and South the figure was close to zero, which meant no electric lights, no electric pumps and, crucially, no electric refrigerators in most farmhouses; commercial ice delivery existed in some areas, but regular ice service was expensive and unreliable for isolated farms at the end of dirt roads, especially in states with hot summers, so keeping milk, meat and leftovers from spoiling was a daily battle that shaped how farm wives planned every meal. Instead of opening a humming white refrigerator, they relied on methods that had evolved over generations: deep hand-dug wells, spring houses, and root cellars cut into hillsides or under the house, where the earth’s natural coolness and stable temperature could be used as a primitive “cold chain”; in some regions, families built small stone or wood “ice houses” half-buried in the ground, packed with blocks of ice cut from ponds and rivers in winter and insulated with sawdust or straw to last into the warm months, and day after day the farm wife would lower milk, cream and butter in metal cans on a rope into the coldest part of the well, or arrange jars, crocks and pans on shelves in the cellar where the air stayed several degrees cooler than the kitchen above. Freshly slaughtered meat was salted, smoked or canned as quickly as possible, and milk was separated and turned into butter or cheese rather than being stored as liquid for long; leftovers were rare because people cooked only what they could safely consume, and in July heat a pot of stew or a pan of biscuits might be sent straight to the cellar after dinner, covered with cloth to keep flies away and set on a high shelf where the air moved, with the hope de que aguentasse até o café da manhã seguinte. Even families that did have access to purchased ice often used “ice boxes” in the literal sense: wooden cabinets lined with metal, with a compartment for a block of ice on top and food on shelves below, the meltwater dripping into a pan that had to be emptied by hand; out on the farm, where ice could be rare in summer, the well shaft or the deepest corner of a dug-out cellar became the de facto ice box, and ingenuity turned geography into technology. Only in the later 1930s, as the New Deal’s Rural Electrification Administration began to string power lines across farm country and manufacturers started offering 110-volt refrigerators designed for farm use on instalment plans, did the image of a farm wife shifting a crock of milk from a rope in the well to a humming Kelvinator or Frigidaire start to become common; until then, for millions of American farm women, “cold storage” meant knowing exactly how deep the well was, which corner of the cellar stayed coolest in August, and how to turn earth and water into a makeshift “ice box” that kept the family’s food safe one more day.