President, Senior Scribes
Dad’s Huckster Wagon
By Delbert Blickenstaff 

I could hardly wait for breakfast to be over so my dad and I could leave for the IGA grocery store. My two brothers had each had their turns the previous two days, and today was my turn. Dad and I walked to the store and opened up the huckster wagon parked directly behind. It was an old narrow school bus which Dad had converted by replacing the side benches with built-in shelving along the sides. 

Each morning that summer, 1929, he would take a brief inventory and restock depleted bins. Then off we would go, taking a different route each day of the week. My favorite route took us through the farm land north of Kewana, Indiana, where we lived, and around a small lake. His customers were the farm women and the resort dwellers on the lake. 

Most of the roads were unpaved and Dad drove them at a leisurely pace, about twenty-five miles an hour. My preferred perch was the doorway on the right side of the bus, with the door open. Cornfields, wheat fields, pastures and woods went by, a constantly changing panorama of nature’s inventiveness. At one spot the road made a right angle turn. I was allowed to dismount, climb over the fence, and run across the field while Dad made a few stops. 

At noon we would park along the side of the road and eat the lunches that Mother had prepared for us. The special treat of the day was a bottle of soft drink of my choice. My favorite was cream soda, and I like it to this day. 

Dad wanted to put a sign on the side of the huckster wagon saying, “We don’t know where mom is, but we have pop on ice.” My brothers and I thought that it was funny, but Mother felt that it was undignified. 

The afternoon was more of the same. At each stop the housewife would come out to the traveling grocery store, sometimes accompanied by a child or two. She would walk up and down the center isle, selecting items she needed. Many items were in bulk, and Dad had a small scale on which he would weigh out the merchandise. The aroma of coffee, flour, sugar, spices, licorice, prunes, and cookies created an atmosphere that was reassuring. We felt that we could drive forever and never run out of food. 

At day’s end I would recount the high points to my brothers, the brief glow soon to be replaced by the realization that it would be three days before it was my turn again. 

When we got older we sometimes worked with Dad on jobs where we earned some money. But nothing ever equaled the adventure of those early days working the route of the huckster wagon. 

Delbert Blickenstaff, M. D.