Iannuccilli: Bring Back the Peddlers

Iannuccilli: Bring Back the Peddlers

With a quarantine upon us, I wonder what it would be like to have our neighborhood peddlers back. Trusted men who added life to our streets, they rumbled down Wealth Avenue in waves.

Joe the ragman was a musty unshaven, gnome-like character who wore a long gray, tattered coat buttoned to the top, and a small visored matching hat. His squeaky, horse-drawn cart was laden with stacks of rags that smelled of the dampness of a cellar. He gurgled “Rraggs,” with a nasal twang. When summoned, up the stairs he plodded on dilapidated dirty boots, satchel over his shoulder.

The fisherman's dark-green, open, panel truck transported firm, fresh fish neatly arranged in wooden sections fitted to the bed of the truck. A rattling scale on a chain hung from a hook. Melting ice dripped from the tailgate. Unshaven and wearing a discolored old Yankee cap tipped to the side, he bore the vaporous look of exhaustion. His canvas coat was stained with dried blood. His high rubber boots flopped against his knees. He grabbed the fillet, flipped it onto the scale, wrapped it in newspaper and off he went, the engine rumbling.

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The waffle man (yep, we did) wore a white apron and tall white hat. He drove a red truck with smooth round fenders and small wheels. After parking, he arose from his low seat and stepped to the raised rear platform, taking his place behind his waffle grilles. As he slid open the window, the aroma of oil and frying dough drifted out. “Yes?” “Two waffles with extra powdered sugar, please,” we chirped.

The iceman stepped from the running board, shuffled to the rear, threw a leather protector onto his back and, lifting tongs from a hook, grabbed a thick block of ice, slung it onto his shoulder and, body rounded by its weight, carried it up the stairs. With drops of water splashing off the heels of his wrinkled, waterlogged boots that squeaked as if he were walking in the snow, he thumped up the stairs.

The ice cream man was a fragile, wiry, frenetic guy who drove a Humpty Dumpty truck that looked like an armored car. Drumsticks, Popsicles, and Creamsicles appeared from a freezer tucked into the rear.

The laundryman picked up the dirty clothes in a sack, loaded them into his large brown truck and a week later returned with a neat package wrapped in brown paper.

The Cushman Bakery man, neatly dressed in a tan-striped shirt and brown pants, sold the best chocolate layer cake.

The milkman gave us chunks of ice to suck on hot days. He sprinted from the passenger side door with his basket of milk and eggs, returning with empties on the way out.

The clothing man drove an old Buick with a trunk packed with suits, shirts, ties, and coats. Hair pomaded, dressed in a three-piece suit, he looked around, moved quickly and never spoke.

There was an umbrella man, a knife sharpener and a vegetable seller; wandering merchants who played in the orchestra of my neighborhood.

Would that they were here today.

 

Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and "My Story Continues" can be found here.