It took me less than ten minutes to conclude that Clarence Birdseye was a man who knew what he was doing. As he toured us through his small but efficient operation, I asked him all sorts of questions. How had he gotten started? Why frozen foods? Why here? He told me that he was a fisherman by trade, and he had come to Gloucester because of the abundant supply of cod, bass, and haddock. Previously he’d lived and traveled throughout the frozen north, where he’d learned the science of frosting and defrosting foods from the locals up there, the Inuit hunters and fishermen who survived because of their knowledge of this process of freezing and thawing whatever food might be available. Then, back in the United States, he’d determined that our new technology known as the assembly line was his best means of mass production.
I listened and nodded, growing more impressed with this Mr. Birdseye, and with the operation he was running entirely on his own in this modest town of Gloucester. Then I had another question: “Mr. Birdseye, would it be possible for you to grow this operation? Higher quantities of what you’re already doing, and perhaps some new frozen products as well?”
He didn’t blink before answering, “Of course, ma’am.” But then he wavered just a moment. “That is, I could apply this science of freezing food to just about anything. The only trouble is, I can only do so much by myself. Someone has to catch the fish. Pick the vegetables. Work the assembly lines. Sell the food. I could expand, yes. But I would need more hands.”
“It’s a lot to do,” I said, nodding as I surveyed his tidy but small operation. When my eyes landed on his massive coolers lining the walls, each one packed with pounds of fish that would keep for weeks—months even—another thought struck me. “Mr. Birdseye, don’t you think that we might be able to eliminate a lot of hunger if we had a stockpile of frozen foods? We could freeze in times of plenty, in order to have a ready supply for times of scarcity?”
Mr. Birdseye nodded decisively. “Indeed, Mrs. Post—er, Mrs. Hutton. Not to mention giving everyone choices for food all year long. Just think of it: drinking a glass of lemonade in January. It sounds impossible. But it’s not. I can do it.”
* * *
—
Just think of it. That’s precisely what I did. And the more I thought about it, the more fervently I decided that I liked what he’d said, and what I’d seen. I liked Clarence Birdseye; I knew implicitly that Papa would have liked him as well, what with his kindred drive to succeed, to serve, to think creatively. Solving a problem, meeting a need, and helping out your fellow man in the process. Not to mention making money—and the potential for lots of it.
“We should buy Birdseye, Ned.” We were back on the schooner and sailing out of Gloucester’s cove under the cover of thickening gray clouds. The water churned with a chop of whitecaps, and the skies threatened rain, but I was more concerned with the dark glower on my husband’s face. His lack of a response—either he hadn’t heard me, or he had chosen not to answer.
“Ned? That was an impressive operation. With us taking it over, Birdseye could really be something.”
Ned shook his head as he finally answered me: “Nobody wants frozen food, Marjorie.”
I pressed my hand to my hip, piqued at such a decisive dismissal. “I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “Have you asked a single housewife? Think about how frozen foods would reduce her work. This is a real opportunity, Ned, and one we can’t afford to pass up.”
Ned braced himself against the yacht’s railing as he stared out at the receding New England shoreline. “You know what people think of when they think of frozen foods?” he asked. “They think soggy. Frostbitten. Tasteless. Besides, you’re not even thinking of the storage problem. How would these housewives of yours keep their frozen foods?”
“Cooling refrigerators,” I answered with a shrug. “Just like Clarence Birdseye said.”
Ned laughed, a derisive sound. “You think every woman in America wants a refrigerator in her home?”
“If it means she can keep food fresh and plentiful,” I answered, “then yes, I think she would.”
Ned waved his hands, shooing away the thought like a tedious fly. “No one wants to have to buy a refrigerator. Not a grocer and not a housewife, either.”
“Ned, they would do it. I’m telling you. It would mean a change in the way food is stored and prepared, sure. But isn’t that what we do?”
My husband turned and stared at me, his handsome features drawn tight as his eyes seemed to search mine. I refused to fidget, refused to break from his probing gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was one of willed patience, tinged with the hint of exasperation: “Marjie, my dear, do I tell you how to run a dinner party? Or what necklaces to buy? Please, my darling, can you quit telling me how to run the business?”