He drove a 1953 Chevy pickup that had a wooden produce stand on the bed and a canopy to keep the sun from baking the goods.
The truck was the color of a gun barrel and clean as a hearse. On Wednesdays and Fridays from May through August, you could always count on him to come by about 3:00 pm. He would toot his horn before he got to West Pratt. He would make his stop in front of our house; all the kids swarmed his truck like yellow jackets on a watermelon rind.
I don’t think his timing was accidental because he would arrive when the kids had been outside running and ripping outside for most of the day. He knew we were hungry and thirsty and waiting for him. His name was Mr. Vandiver.
He wore a pith helmet like the ones worn by Englishmen on safari in Africa. His khaki pants and shirts were always starched and ironed. He was soft spoken with a keen eye and had a knack for picking the best tomatoes, squash, green beans and melons.
He also knew what we kids liked. His selection of penny candy was everyone’s favorites, Mary Janes, Fireball Jaw Breakers, wax bottles filled with Kool-Aid, and one of my favorites, Buzooka Bubble Gum rolled like a big cigar. I once pulled out a loose tooth chewing that gum.
There were Golden Flake potato chips, and Moon Pies and in the very back of the pickup was a Number 3 washtub full of ice and bottles of Orange Crush, Nehi Grape, Dr. Pepper, Coca-Cola and RCs. All were so cold they would give you brain freeze.
After the kids bought their stuff, the adults would come up and browse through the tomatoes, cucumbers and squash, along with apples, grapes and peaches from Clanton, Al.
He used one of those change machines that hung off his belt. He could expertly squeeze the levers, dishing out correct change in a matter of seconds. He was never in a hurry, but he didn’t dilly-dally around.
When all the kids had their candy and cold drinks, and the grownups had enough veggies and fruit to fill the fridge, he was back in his old Chevy, rolling down to the next community. He came by our house for years, until our town moved to the highway and progress and strip malls made his work obsolete.
I thought about the peddler today and it occurred to me how much life has changed through the years. Now you can go to any number of stores and buy anything you can imagine. I think there is just more emphasis on the bottom line than on selecting that perfect tomato that would put a smile on my mom’s face.
It’s hard to imagine Walmart or any big box store ever leaving an enduring memory like those of people like the peddler or local grocer or druggist.
