Jim. the Bread Man

His name was “Jim.” He drove a bulky, white step-van, journeying endlessly on planned routes throughout the interconnecting and tightly-closed villages of Country Club Meadows within Evansville’s evolving north-side in the 1960s. He made the route once and sometimes twice daily, depending on the weather and other circumstances, to deliver his goods. This was a time long-before all-night groceries and convenience stores.

With near Swiss watch precision, you could count on Jim’s arrival, long before hearing the quick horn beeps. Moms and kids would gather at roadside awaiting his perfunctory stop. More milk there, Jennie and Dottie?... Okay, Bonnie  and, you there, Pat, here’s some bread and I’m ‘bout out of it until the next run… You over there – I told you I can’t run too much lunch loaf and bologna ‘cause I can’t icebox that much… Okay, y’all tell me what I might need to load up on my next run and I will make a list.

Most paid in full; others were given an extension which, no doubt, would be paid, by his next visit. Or conveniently forgotten if the debt was not too deep.

As a kid, such simple transactions seemed to take an eternity. However, I believe Jim also was exchanging what little news he gleaned from surrounding streets: Marital discord and the rare divorce proceedings; whose husband was fired from a job; a kid destined for reform school; family deaths; and the innocent gossip which enshrouded our fledgling subdivision. And the unlucky yet growing number of 18-year-olds drawing the straw for a ticket to Vietnam.

Yet, I don’t believe the Breadman ever delved into ugly gossip. Wasn’t his shtick.

Eventually, the Moms would finish their transactions and chit-chat, then the kid invasion would begin, each of us tightly clutching our nickels and dimes and a few spot pennies. And what a world it was! We’d hop aboard and scoop up our booty of Lemonheads, Milk Duds and Lik-M-Aids (straw-filled sugar-sucking bongs).On occasion, Jim would be carrying the latest editions of Archie and Marvel comics.

He’d rub our heads as we reported aboard his white, suburban super-shop, joke with us and would forgive our sins when a bit short on coins. He knew we were good for our deficits. If not – well, there it was. And when we stepped down to the pavement, he would always wave and let us know he’d be back.

Like it or not, time and changes always shuffles the deck for a new game. Eventually, for whatever reasons, the always-grinning grocer on wheels, I suspect, was forced to bow to emerging supermarkets and convenience stories.

He was a merchant in a time long gone who listened to Moms long before Phil Donahue. He also playfully indulged countless kids. There are few like him anymore.

He was Jim -- our Bread Man.