IT AIN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE

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Way back in the old days, life sure was a lot different. Trust in your fellow man was a taken for granted everyday occurrence. People were a lot poorer and everyone had to work to make life possible. It seemed almost seamless as we went through our days, one at a time, without fanfare or a need to be appreciated.

Mom stayed at home, as did all moms I knew, and their lives were governed by what was important, raising and teaching their children. The ordinary such as insurance salesmen was a lot different too. Once a month our doorbell was rung from three floors down on the bank of buttons that were situated in the vestibule as you entered the apartment. In the apartment, you rang your end to let the person by the main door into the stairway.

RRRRIIINNNNGGGG!!!

RRRRIIINNNNGGGG!!! (right back at cha)

“OLYMPIAAAAAAAAA!!!”

It was the insurance man, coming to collect his nickel, that’s right, a nickel a month for insurance. He was a very business looking man, with a grey suit and fedora, who would climb two flights of stairs to my third floor dwelling, knock on our door and Mom would allow him in. He carried a little account book, open it, Mom would hand him the nickel and he would open the little passport size book and mark her down as paid, and off he went to his next account. Yes, the nickel didn’t even need to be shiny, either!

Then there was a Fuller Brush salesman, he came around a little less often, with his black suitcase of the latest in brush wares and mount the two sets of stairs and knock, Mom would check out what was the latest in brushes and once in a while purchase one.

We even had a man who collected and sold junk on a horse drawn wagon, as well as a fruit and vegetable man with a horse drawn wagon, along with a fish monger.

In the summer time, there was a little catering to kids too. There was aside from the Bungalow Ice Cream truck, a hot dog wagon, with a big colorful umbrella, that fascinated me to no end with the wagon’s compartments. The peddler pushed it to various spots in Brooklyn and sold his dirty water frankfurters, with the big red letters, impressively designed along the sides of the cart and the Sabrett logo on his umbrella, usually red and yellow and self-contained to hold franks, buns and sauerkraut, along with mustard and relish. Some nights, along came a truck with a ride like a whip or a rocking seat, making it virtually impossible to be bored.

Once we moved out to the sticks, we lost most of that, save for the ice cream truck. We did have milk delivery though. You had on your doorstep a red wooden Sagtikos Dairy box that could hold four quarts of milk. You left a note in the box for how many you needed and whatever extra products like cream or butter.

Then there was my favorite deliverer of all time, the Duggan’s man. He was my hero, delivering donuts and cakes, freshly baked, all with my name on them. It so happened that the delivery man was a neighbor of ours, and real gentleman who had a very nice family, his name was Erickson, and his son, my friend was Paul. I can’t believe I never wheedled out of Paul any free donuts!

Boy, life just ain't what it used to be!