A Huckster Truck From About 1919

I remember in my youth--later, not sooner--that there existed a local store, which was run by Mr. Roscoe Ewing.  It sat just beside the railroad track in a little town called Morgan, Kentucky, just across the road from the one-room post office where everyone in the little town collected his mail from day to day.

I lived in this little town when I was four and five years old.  There used to be a bank in the town, and another business or two, and on the hill just beyond the railroad track were a few small shanty houses where railroad workers lived with their families.  Each one had two rooms, somewhat like the one which my family inhabited near the Licking River on the opposite side of the town from these little houses .  There was also a very nice school--modern for its day.  My mother had graduated from that school  in or near the year of 1935.  We moved to the country when I was five years old.  But I have digressed! 

The Ewing store was a General Store, and Mr. Ewing carried all kinds of items there.  He had items for the farm work that was so prevalent around that area; he had some clothing; and he had food items that each family needed on a weekly basis.

At one time Mr. Ewing purchased an old Greyhound bus to use for the huckster.  It was quite nice, because there was enough room for a sample of many of the good items in the store.  The bus (or truck we called it) was filled each week, and the truck went on specific routes to the homes in the surrounding areas.  The driver would blow the horn before he got to a house to let the people there know that he was on his way.  By the time he got to the house, someone was out waiting for him, and he would stop.  Then each person would go through the truck much like one would go through the store and shop for the needed items.

I remember that we had the most wonderful black man who was the driver of the huckster.  We loved him.  He was a good friend to everyone.  Very few black people lived in our area, so we thought of it as a blessing to see him and talk with him.  He was a kind and good person.  His name was Ollie Porter.

I remember going through the huckster truck and helping my mother choose the items she wanted for the week.  She would charge the items to the store, and my father would pay the bill either at the end of the week or the end of the month; I never really knew about that.

Sometimes the driver would ask me if I would like to ride to the end of the road with him and clean the huckster truck on the way.  I almost always did that, and he would give me something for cleaning and straightening items in the truck.  It usually was a candy bar and a soft drink (pop), or some other item from the truck.  That was a joy for me.

Those were the times when days were long and life was slow.  Oh, that it could be that way now!  The simple things were so precious, and life was not so complicated then.  Even our friendship with the black man named Ollie Porter was simple and sincere.  Many used the "n" word in those days, but they did not mean any disrespect by it.  We tried to respect everyone and did not make a difference in origin or skin color.

When I returned to my house from helping the driver straighten items in the huckster truck, I would get out and go in the house and enjoy my candy bar and soft drink.  Then I did not know or understand how precious those memories would be.  I sometimes wish I could sit there again and enjoy that one soft drink, eat that one candy bar, and wait one week for that old truck to blow its horn in the distance so that I could take just one more ride with the old black driver and relive this memory just one more time.