HIS MEMORY LIVES THIRTY YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH !!!

 
  My fathers Cushman Bakery truck was an important part of our family life.  That Ford Sedan Delivery truck enabled my father to make a living and also served as the family transportation.
  Although we called the truck Bess, she wasn't just a vehicle, she was a member of our family! It was the early fifties when a two-car family was a
dream, not a necessity as it is today.  Dads' ideal was to have the truck and a car, but with a wife and three children to support, it would take a few years for that dream to come true.  Dad and Bess were on the road six days a week selling Cushman Bakery products door to door.  This was before the days of two-income, two-car families who shop at malls. 
  This gradual change in American life made milkmen and breadmen an "endangered species" and then extinct.  The work hours were long but Dad was a natural born salesman; he loved his work and most of all he loved to drive.
  Bess was bought brand new; she wasn't the most expensive model but the little chrome she wore for adornment suited her just fine.  She was painted a distinguished black and on her side panels was the Cushman logo in black lettering against a white background.  Her interior was
plain but functional.  Although she boasted no radio, once in a while when encouraged by a bumpy road would break into a song of squeaks, squeals and shakes.  There were two bucket seats and behind them were the large wooden boxes that held a variety of different bakery products that Dad peddled door to door.
  Saturday was a late night for Bess and Dad because it was collection day.  The entire family waited for their arrival, but it wasn't for the usual snack or treat we could get from Bess's mother-lode.  This was the night we all gathered to sort the bills and change on the livingroom
floor that had been collected that day.  After the final count, new piles were made on the floor, one for the purchase of next weeks' load, one for the household expenses, and another for the savings account.  What money was left, was the family "mad money" used for our Sunday excursions in Bess.
  Bess was easily converted for family use.  The empty Cushman boxes served as cribs, playpens, and then wonderful box seats with the cushions form the upstairs studio couch.  My sister, Janet, had her own box while my brother and I shared a box until the regular fight ensued and one of us
was sent to Janets' box.  I'm sure many times my parents were tempted to turn our box over and let Janet sit on top just to get a little peace and quiet.
  With the help of a sterno stove, a Coleman ice chest, and a picnic basket we had an early predecessor of todays' expensive conversion vans.  We'd go the the beach one weekend and to the mountains the next.  The places we went
to visit were nice but the trip in Bess was by far the most fun.  When Bess negotiated a curve we could, with a slight shift of our weight, play bumper boxes.  When Bess went over a hill we sometimes had the experience of a roller coaster
ride.  There were few requests to go to the amusement park at Nantasket Beach while we had Bess.
  Then came the time when our Sunday outings stopped.  A strange thing happened; Mom began to get behind the wheel.  She was learning how to drive.  The clothesline was taken down and Mom would drive Bess around and around the house. 
We children would sit, out of danger, on the back steps and we would hoot and holler every time they passed.  We would shout out the number of laps, little did we know it was also the countdown for Bess.  Mom was returning to school teaching and soon a rival "56" Ford Fairlane joined Bess in the driveway.  Soon after Dad changed jobs and Bess stayed in the driveway serving as a jungle gym for us children.   Her empty Cushman boxes became part of our backyard playground.  With the help of a steel wash-tub placed sideways in a box we had a cowboy wagon or placed together the boxes made wonderful forts and bunkhouses.
  Poor Bess stood in the driveway with only an
occasional child climbing over her waiting fenders.  Then one day she disappeared; Dad had sold her.  Our gypsy Sundays were gone forever; we now had two respectable cars in which we could even bring both grandmothers on our family
outings.  With Bess gone, we shared the same experiences as all our fellow Sunday travelers.  Boy did I miss Bess!