The EGG ROUTE 1950’s & 1960’s

The basement of our house was where eggs 

were washed, candled, cartoned, and then stored for the weekly delivery to Hammond,

Indiana.

The egg route was the money stream that kept cash rolling

in to support our family.  The egg route was a weekly journey north of

our farm to a small vibrant city named Hammond, Ind. Hammond, a city

constructed of row houses & some single family houses all backed by alleys was

our route to deliver eggs. 

It was the alleys that my father navigated

to deliver our eggs by the dozens.  A labor of love and hard work

to go door to door with a product that was fresh from the farm.

I got to go along on the egg

route when not in school or in summer time

—and I was named the “egg man’s daughter” when greeted by 

costumers as they stood in doorways to receive the eggs.

These doors were openings to another world

for me. I remember these houses and the glimpses of other lives.

All stage sets with characters. Some women wore hair in curlers and 

were dressed in house robes as the door opened to greet me. Some

houses had kitchens and other rooms that reflected their lives. These all

were magic to my young eyes.  Sights, sounds, smells, barking dogs,

cats lounging and men in undershirts.

I had little access to other lives and worlds

beyond the farm. These spaces made a deep impression on me.

We also stopped at bars to deliver cases of eggs and

here we had lunch—the burgers and fries were so delicious–rarely did I

eat out. 

The bar in the day time was another kind of set—it was dark and filled with bottles

of gin, whisky etc which lined the shelves. The beer levers stood as sentinels

for patrons choices.

The day light juxtaposed the night life and created the contrast. 

It was another kind of mysterious world and

a glimpse  into another world that I was let into.

Another stop was the bakery. Here we delivered cases and cases

of eggs some were our cracked eggs—they were good for bakers but

not for consumers…the cracked eggs were hair line cracks that one

caught on the candler—and were set aside for bakery business. 

We entered the bakery through the back door and here was a space filled

with huge equipment for making dough.

There was large counter space used to roll out all kinds of breads

and pastry.

And in the front of the bakery there was a kind of pastry heaven.

Glass display cases that held the fresh baked goods—mouth watering delights. 

It was here that I ate my first glazed donut and my first jelly filled pastry aka Bismarks. 

My first foray into the world beyond my grandmothers homemade donuts.

I can still taste these baked delights from the commercial bakers world.

We got some. These treats were put into a white bag

ready for the trip to resume as we continued the route and made our

way home. 

The last stop was the feed store—here we got some chicken feed.

The feed came in cloth bags. The chicken feed “called Mash” gave off an order

that I can still recall. These bags once opened by the sewn

thread were all saved and recycled into pillow cases or kitchen towels by my mother

(by the way). 

At this feed store was a coke machine.  Coin operated.  It was the

cold coke that came in a bottle that was a refresher for the hot times.  The sound of

the coin dropping into the machine and the clanging and banging of the

coke bottle dropping down the chute made a kind of event that was 

unforgettable.  The cold bottle in my hand and the first sip of the coke

down my throat was a delight on these hot summer days. 

The times in my dad’s truck on this route

are imprinted in my mind. 

There was no air conditioning .

Windows open.

My arm out the window shaped at a right angle.

Me gazing in the side mirror watching time

and space blur.

Thinking of the sights and sounds collected as we

returned home with the remains of the day.

It was another time.

This is not nostalgia it is a snap shot.

Like a photograph or a love story.

No longing and no going back.

It is what it is.