Bob Wright
Hawkeye
Contrary to what some might expect, I was once a little boy. I grew up in Memphis, a large city with agricultural roots. And a very segregated city. I say that only as a fact of life, nothing to be proud of nor to brag about.
I remember in the summer time, and early morning hours, a mule drawn wagon creaking down our street. The mule's head hung sort of low, bobbing as he plodded down the street, his hoofs clopping on the street, the tire irons grating on the asphalt, and the creaking of the loaded wagon. An older black man sat on the seat box, while young black girls walked down the sidewalk on either side of the street. They were barefooted and balanced a round tray on their heads, the tray loaded with pint sized boxes of fruit or vegetables. As they walked, they shouted "Maaaaah-ket woman! Maaaaaah-ket woman." A housewife would come out to their porch and do business with one of the women, buying fresh vegetables for supper. To be business like, a produce scale swung at the back of the wagon.
On another morning, another wagon would come down the street, creaking and clattering. A lone black man drove the wagon. Next to him, on the seat, was a steel gong, and periodically he would strike three or four times, very loudly, with a steel rod. Clang,clang, clang! Then shout "Rag man! Rag man!" And folks would emerge from their homes and pile armfuls of rags onto his wagon. I didn't know until I was grown those rags went into making paper.
My favorite wagon was a small box-like wagon, pulled by a horse and rubber tired with automobile type tires. It made very little noise, so the driver jangled a set of bells set at the rein opening. The wagon looked like a small house on wheels, completely enclosed. It was the "popsicle man!" I would run out with my nickle, when I had one, and buy a grape popsicle. I would sit on the curb and lick on a double popsicle as purple juice flowed down my hand, the hot weather taking its toll.
Good, or not, those were the days!
Bob Wright
I remember in the summer time, and early morning hours, a mule drawn wagon creaking down our street. The mule's head hung sort of low, bobbing as he plodded down the street, his hoofs clopping on the street, the tire irons grating on the asphalt, and the creaking of the loaded wagon. An older black man sat on the seat box, while young black girls walked down the sidewalk on either side of the street. They were barefooted and balanced a round tray on their heads, the tray loaded with pint sized boxes of fruit or vegetables. As they walked, they shouted "Maaaaah-ket woman! Maaaaaah-ket woman." A housewife would come out to their porch and do business with one of the women, buying fresh vegetables for supper. To be business like, a produce scale swung at the back of the wagon.
On another morning, another wagon would come down the street, creaking and clattering. A lone black man drove the wagon. Next to him, on the seat, was a steel gong, and periodically he would strike three or four times, very loudly, with a steel rod. Clang,clang, clang! Then shout "Rag man! Rag man!" And folks would emerge from their homes and pile armfuls of rags onto his wagon. I didn't know until I was grown those rags went into making paper.
My favorite wagon was a small box-like wagon, pulled by a horse and rubber tired with automobile type tires. It made very little noise, so the driver jangled a set of bells set at the rein opening. The wagon looked like a small house on wheels, completely enclosed. It was the "popsicle man!" I would run out with my nickle, when I had one, and buy a grape popsicle. I would sit on the curb and lick on a double popsicle as purple juice flowed down my hand, the hot weather taking its toll.
Good, or not, those were the days!
Bob Wright
Thanks for sharing that!
