Beyond the Byline: What was the rag man’s name?

On the Facebook last week there was a lot of discussion about “the rag man” who used to drive up and down the streets of Plymouth picking up rags that people would want to discard.

Apparently, it was a very lucrative business out of a horse-drawn carriage.

The discussion of the social media page was filled with fond memories of the rag man and his visits through the neighborhoods and how he was revered by the townfolk, probably because he provided a service that was very much needed.

The sad part of the discussion is that nobody could remember the rag man’s name. I tried and tried to recall his name because I am certain my mom knew his name and called to him whenever she wanted him to stop in front of our house. My mom always said the rag man would take people’s old clothes and rags and other items.

Yet nobody could remember the man’s name. And we all can remember that long tin horn that he would blare when he was near.

There were also two men who each had a flatbed truck and sold fresh produce. One man was was Joe Wende, a man with a million-dollar smile and the best tasting fruit and vegetables this side of the Susquehanna River.

The other man’s name, as I recall, was Barney.

But everybody knew Mr. Wende. And we all looked forward to his visits in the neighborhood, and my mom and all the moms were sure to fill bags with his produce.

The psychology of this is to ask why we all remember Mr. Wende’s name, but can’t recall the rag man’s name. They both provided good service and great products, but for some reason, Mr. Wende is remembered by name, but the other reliable neighborhood businessman is only recalled as “the rag man.”

But this was life in small town neighborhoods in the 1950s and 1960s. So I decided to hop into the Way Back Machine to relive those good old days in the neighborhood.

These were the days of when schools were in those neighborhoods and neighborhoods were safe and neighbors were friendly. Front doors and car doors were never locked, telephones were dialed and some had party lines and sometimes busy signals were gotten. Back then doctors made house calls and salesmen demonstrated vacuum cleaners right there in your living room. Charles Chips, Glen Bottling Co. soda and Purvin milk were delivered to your front porch.

People smiled — and they often laughed. It was a carefree time when anyone’s worst fears could easily be forgotten over a banana split or chocolate milk shake from Golden Quality or Mister Softee or Dairy Dan.

Kids played in the street and the air was pristine, although often enhanced by the tantalizing aroma of home-cooked meals being prepared in neighborhood kitchens.

Families gathered around dining room or kitchen tables for dinner. Watching television was a treat, not a mandatory function. The shows were funny and entertaining and cursing was only heard when the furnace went out, the car got a flat tire or a bat flew in through a window.

Those were, indeed, the good old days. I think about them often.

I think of lazy days in the shade of Jack’s Market on Second Street in Plymouth where my pals and I would have a Popsicle, or soda, or candy bar as we discussed riveting topics like Mickey Mantle, Whiffle ball and the weekend trips to Melody Park for a picnic and a swim.

We drank Yoo Hoo and Kickapoo Joy Juice and cream sodas. We devoured Tastykakes and juice from wax candies and rode our bikes everywhere.

We had fun — always. And most of us — pretty near 99.9% — turned out just fine.

I mention Jack’s Market because it epitomized life in the 1960s. My mom would call Jack Ziomek every morning to give him her order. Sometimes Jack’s wife, Ann, would take the call.

My mom would ask, “What’s good today, Jack?” Jack would tell my mom what type of beef, or pork, or chicken, or other deals he had for that day. My mom would plan our dinner accordingly and order the other items she needed to prepare it.

A couple of hours later, “Picky” Shusta would arrive at our door — only a block from Jack’s Market — with a box filled with our order. He would walk right in, say hello and drop the box on our kitchen table.

My mom would take it from there. She would prepare a delicious meal that was always ready at 5 p.m. She, my dad and I would gather around our table and enjoy every morsel. Sometimes, one of my neighborhood pals would join us.

There were no fast food bags to be found. This nightly dinner was just that — nightly. It wasn’t a special occasion — every occasion was special.

After dinner, kids returned to playing. There could be a stocking ball game in the street or a Whiffle ball game in the backyard. Or we could play hide and seek or up-against — a form of baseball that involved throwing a rubber ball against a wall, trying to catch the beveled edge for tape-measure homers.

Sometimes, we would walk down to Huber Playground to play basketball or football. Or maybe we had a Little League game or practice. As the sun began to set, we returned to our front porches. Neighbors would visit and tell stories.

We walked to school, even in three feet of snow, up hill, both ways, as they say.

Exaggerated? Perhaps a little.

And these memories get better and better all the time.

I just wish I could remember the rag man’s name.