A Neighborhood on Wheels


Long before Amazon, there were the milk, ice, coal and rag men.

By: Eugene Gino Mahofski, La Nostra Voce 

The ice, rag, milk and coal men are all a distant memory when I think back to my Manchester-Pittsburgh neighborhood, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t miss these hucksters from around the block who were fading out as I was coming up.

This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper, that chronicles Italian life, culture and traditions. Make the ISDA pledge and subscribe today.

The timeframe was the late 1940s and early 1950s, when these men all played a mobile part in providing communities with essential supplies and perishables.  They represented convenience and our older neighbors regularly rubbed elbows with these bygone businessmen.  I often witnessed their dedication to hard work as they passed through the streets while we played “Billboards,” “Rusty Creepers,” “Tin Can Alley” and “football” (sometimes we’d use tightly rolled and taped newspaper to roughly mimic the oblong pigskin).

Here’s who I remember:

The Ice Man                                                     

This purveyor of frozen water traveled the neighborhood driving a horse-drawn wooden wagon filled with scored blocks of ice, and we always stopped what we were doing to hitch a ride.  With his pick and tongs in hand he chipped away at the ice, placed it into a sheepskin bag, slung it over his shoulder and made the usual deliveries.  At that point his stops in the neighborhood were few, but he always chipped us some chewable ice as he pulled out of sight.

The Rag Man                          

He pushed a two-wheel cart, but I don’t quite remember much about him; however, I do recall him passing through the streets shouting, “Rags, old iron, newspaper!”  I think the rag man paid cash for his inventory, and then he sold it off at a small profit.

The Coal Man   

Not all the homes on Carsell Street were equipped with a central coal furnace, so waiting for a ton or half ton of coal to be delivered was not unusual.  The coal man sold it by the bucket, and typically there were two or three coal delivery trucks cruising in our area.  Our freestanding coal stove was located in the kitchen, and coal space was limited.  It was my job to flag down the coal truck after I came home from school at lunchtime, and my instructions were to get the cheapest bucket of coal.  To the best of my memory, the price of a bucket of coal ranged from $0.40 to $0.55.  If the price was right, I shouted out the second-floor window for a delivery.  This familiar face, coated with black dust, dumped the coal into our coal container in the kitchen.  When my mom returned home from work, I always got her approval for the right lunchtime purchase.

The Milk Man

Mr. Max was the Meadow Gold milk man; he was older and ready for retirement, and two or three of us would see him coming up the street.  He was usually standing as he drove his milk truck, and we would all squeeze in.  At his stops we would make his deliveries — up the steps, down the alleys, onto the porches and into the doorways.  The empty return bottles were of value, and they were a necessary pick-up.  The empty bottles sometimes contained a note.  “Max, leave me extra butter, cottage cheese or eggs.”  Max filled the request, and we ran the extra items to the customer.

We cruised down Carsell Street, went up Gobel Street, rolled to Fulton Street and ended up at Ridge Avenue and Reedsdale Street.  At the end of the route, my friends and I would receive a treat or a small payday.

Lastly, the ice cream and food truck men remained in the changing Industrial section of our neighborhood.

The years passed and soon enough these roving street merchants disappeared.  We moved on, as kids do, to a floating sandy beach under the West End Bridge, located on the shoreline of the Ohio River — but that’s a story for another time.

 

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