BIRTH OF A SALESMAN

Lou Rogers -A lot of truth with a smidgen of fiction.

PROLOGUE

In the summer of 1937, my father, an Illinois vegetable farmer and a peddler, introduced me to the basics of selling. One day, he took me with him to a neighboring town on a peddling trip. Sometime during the afternoon of that day, I noticed that Poppa was sort of looking me over for some reason. After a few minutes he said, "Ray, you look to me like your big enough to handle some of these vegetables." Upon saying that he handed me an arm basket of vegetables and said, "Take this basket and go to those houses down the street there, knock on a door, then stand back a few feet away from the door so that the lady of the house when opening the door can easily see you. That way the she won=t feel threatened by how big you are." (Poppa saying; how big I was puffed me up like a toad, and I thought, well, I am nine years old.) Then he said, "Raymond, show her the vegetables, tell her how good they taste, tell her the price, accept the money, count it good, come back to the wagon and get more vegetables, and go find another door to knock on." I loved it!

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My Momma's voice from the bottom of the stairs woke me up, "Get up Ray and come on now, your Poppa is ready to eat breakfast." I dressed quickly and rushed down the stairs, glancing at the clock as I entered the kitchen. The clock hands pointed at 2:30 AM. I walked over to the window and looked out. Everything was pitch black out there. I could hardly see the well pump. Another day starting out very much like many others. However, on this day there was a big difference. Today I was going on the wagon with my Poppa peddling. YES! This day was very special!

I was so sleepy, but, I didn’t want to show it as I sat at the table with Poppa, waiting for breakfast. Momma put a plate on the table with fried eggs piled high and slices of browned side meat stacked neatly. Soon after the egg plate, there came a big pan of steaming hot biscuits straight from the old woodstove's oven and a bowl of redeye gravy from the frying pan. Then Momma sat down at the table with us. Reid, my older brother by two years, was there too. He went with Poppa sometimes, but not today. Today was my day to shine. Recall of my dear Mother, vibrant and happy as she was on that early morning is like seeing her forever in bright sunlight. But, Poppa's presence wore the halo. Going with Poppa anywhere, and especially peddling was not an every day occurrence.

After breakfast on that dewy early morning we walked through the tall wet grass to the barn. It was somewhere around 3 o'clock when Poppa was gathering the harness and throwing it softly on to the old black horse, and hitching him up to the wagon. We soon jumped into the wagon and headed for the fields of vegetables. Upon arriving we grabbed some baskets and started filling them with the fresh picked tomatoes, peppers and other vegetables. I stayed near as I could to my Poppa as we filled the bushel baskets. My desire for closeness was spurred not only from fear of the early morning darkness but I also wanted to be as near to Poppa as I could be. He was always in the best humor in the early mornings. Things I would say then were important to him, and things I did were the right things to do. Usually, as the day wore on, his reactions to my jabber and scrambling around were somewhat indifferent.

By the time we first caught a red brightness on the horizon we were well on our way to a neighboring town. As the edge of town finally came into full view, Poppa stopped the wagon, gathered a handful of gunny sacks out from under the seat and began to rub the old black horse. He made sure there wasn't a smidgeon of the white, foamy, sweat's salt any where on him. He swiftly went over the horse several times using more than one gunny sack until the horse stood there in the bright morning sunlight, perfectly dry with his black coat shining. The old horse acted like he really enjoyed it. I could tell by the way he showed the whites of his eyes looking back at Poppa and the way he arched his neck like he wanted to get frisky. I always seemed to know what our old horse was thinking.

When Poppa finally swung back up onto the wagon, he peeled a turnip and cut a tomato, which we shared. A little later, as we rolled further into the outskirts of town, out of my father’s pocket came a harmonica. He tapped it against the palm of his hand several times and a couple times on his knee. He then put it to his mouth and the sweet musical sounds were sharp and clear. He announced our arrival into town with Home Sweet Home, Brown Eyes and Rock Of Ages. The sweet notes of the harmonica sort of blended in with the creaking of the wooden wagon and the sharp, crunching of the wagon's iron wheel rims on the graveled, rough surface of the road and the clip-clop, clip-clop, of the heavy hooves of the old black horse. ...Even now, those sounds can fill my ears.

Soon, we stopped in the town at a certain spot my father had in mind. We pulled the canvas back off the baskets of tomatoes, peppers, green beans, radishes, turnips and other things we had. Poppa jumped over the side of the wagon and hung a scoop-scale on two little poles that he attached to the wagon just for that purpose. While he was doing that, several Mothers, with little bashful kids tagging along behind their skirts, began coming out of the houses and out to the street. The Mothers would stop to gather with others, talk quietly, and then mosey slowly over in groups to the side of the wagon. I stayed on the wagon and pushed the full baskets to my father as he ask for them. (My how Poppa could cipher and talk with people. Now I know that he really was good with figures and people. He was obviously in his "heyday", figuring and dealing.)

As the day moved on, so did we to other spots in town where similar things happened. Finally, there was no one coming to the wagon. At this time, we sat down in the wagon with the sideboard for a backrest and Poppa reached under the wagon seat to grab a one-gallon molasses bucket sitting there. From this bucket, he took out a biscuit containing fried side meat for each of us, and from the vegetable baskets on the wagon, Poppa, with his pocketknife sliced green peppers and tomatoes. All of it tasted so good, especially the fried, salty side meat. We washed it all down with long drinks of cool water from our jug.

Soon after we finished eating, my father filled two arm baskets with a variety of the vegetables we still had on the wagon. He told me not to leave the wagon, and he set off down the street with a basket on each arm, knocking on doors of the houses as he came to them. Finally, when he came back, the first thing he did was to move the wagon out of the sun a little more, making sure the old black horse was resting in the deep cool shade.

Then I noticed that Poppa put some vegetables in three arm basket instead of just two. He pulled the canvas back over the big baskets, and handed me the least filled arm basket. I immediately suspected what he was up to and I felt scared and very small. He looked at me, and he slowly said, "Son, people will buy these big red tomatoes and other good things to eat from you as quick as they will from me". My gosh, I didn't feel that way at all. Then he said, "Raymond, take this basket and go to each house on that street over there, knock on the side or back door, then stand back away from the door so that the house lady when opening the door can see you real good and not feel threatened by how big you are." (I was nine years old at the time and those words of how big I was may have been all the magic I needed). Poppa continued, "show her the vegetables, and tell her how good they taste, tell her this is a special for you and the prices are reasonable, accept the money and count it real good. Then come back to the wagon and get some more vegetables, and go find another door to knock on." I loved it! Late in the afternoon as we were coming home, I slept soundly, leaning against my Poppa as we sat on the board seat with the wagon bouncing along through the ruts and over the rocks. He held me tight so I wouldn't bounce off. As I slept, I dreamed of selling things of all kinds and I was the best selling man my Poppa ever had. I sold big baskets of every kind of vegetables, I sold wagons and gunny sacks, horses and harness and everything. I sold things just so I could buy things for my Mother and when I got home, I showed her candy and other nice things I knew she wanted. I brought my older brother Reid, a jackknife and other things he always wanted. Aren't dreams the precursors of desire?

Arriving home that evening is kind of sketchy in my mind, but I do remember telling my Mom about my day. I can almost hear my Poppa again now, as he was telling Momma about the extra things we sold and the extra money he had because of the doors I knocked on...

EPILOGUE

To this "big peddler" experience, I've added thirty odd years of sales work, twenty years of military life and a couple years of "gandy dancing" along with a few other smaller jobs. But, when I think back about my past, and particularly about sales work, it's the day I was a "big peddler" for my Poppa that strikes my memory first.

Sometimes it seems like it was just early this morning when Pop and Mom, and Reid and I sat at the table eating fried eggs, browned side meat, biscuits and redeye gravy. I was not surprised or disappointed later that day when some more of that salty, fried side meat showed up in a biscuit out of the molasses bucket. How I would love to see my Poppa again, sitting there on the back of the wagon with me, peeling big white turnips and cutting deep red juicy tomatoes. And, hear his voice again consoling his old black horse as he rubbed him dry and silky with gunnysacks. And, the clear, sweet sounds of Pop's harmonica...

_ LRR 1991

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