When I was a kid, there was always something going on in my neighborhood. I remember the daily routine of the milkman and the baker who appeared each morning, first in horse-drawn wagons and then in little trucks. Mail was delivered twice a day, and garbage, as well as garbage wagons, were collected twice a week. And it seemed like there was a coal delivery for someone every week. And this was just the beginning.

Ice was still delivered to homes long after World War II ended. People used to put little signs in their front windows to indicate how much they needed. In summer, the boys on the block used to wait for the refrigerated truck to arrive; and when the man was delivering his frozen product, we’d jump in the back, grab some chips, and then follow him around the corner before the man came back from making the delivery, and then we’d sit on the sidewalk in front of the ice cream store. corner groceries. to enjoy this free gift. When he chased us away, we moved to the other corner where the pharmacy was. We used the same curbs to eat watermelon, if we were lucky enough to get a slice, and see how far we could spit out the pips. Around Halloween, even though the concrete was cold, we ate pomegranates because our mom didn’t want us to fill the house with red things.

We saw the hawkers making their rounds and also the hawkers of fish; even the fresh horseradish man came by periodically. The Italian water ice cream cart and ice cream truck passed by every warm afternoon. And the hand-operated merry-go-round would stop on the corner, and a little old organ-grinder in his overalls would come by every two weeks. From time to time a man would appear with a pony. He stopped showing up after realizing that no one wanted to pay a nickel to sit on the moth-eaten animal or shell out a quarter to have their picture taken with the steed.

This was not the end of the procession. The department store was in the center. They delivered, since the mothers could not take much home on public transport. Each store had its own trucks and delivered on different days of the week. In addition, there were the debit insurance representatives who collected weekly along with the morning and evening paper boys and the people selling everything from toothbrushes to vacuum cleaners to encyclopedias, all going from house to house. It was a captive market, as most moms were staying at home; but I don’t know how well they responded to sales pitches.

Money was tight until the late 1940s, when the economy opened up, new automobiles became available, television appeared, suburban branches of downtown stores began to appear in newly built strip malls. That’s when Americans started spending. And we have not stopped; there were a few delays along the way, but we always go back and buy more. For years we jumped in our cars, fought traffic looking for places that carried the things we wanted to buy, loaded up the trunk or cargo area, and brought our treasures home. Now, we go online, order what we need, and deliver. It is convenient and efficient; but for this pre-boomer, it’s a far cry from the ongoing activities and interactions that once took place on a small street in Northeast Philly when I was a kid.