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.