The Peddler

The Peddler

The Peddler

The peddler, an old Jewish man, drove up from New York
He went to church on Saturdays and stayed away from pork.
His dull green Chevy paneled truck was built in ‘32
And he dressed in denim overalls, faded, worn and blue

A real life old time peddler, his route was long and rough
And he drove the Catskill Mountain roads selling all his stuff
Straw hats and jeans and sewing thread, his truck was crammed with goods
And he’d start out high and end up low just like we knew he would

He had a scraggly unkempt beard all sprinkled through with gray
His deep set eyes held a guarded look that never went away
His manners were impeccable, old world genteel and fine
His voice, accented, rumbled low, but always warm and kind

A rolling-dry-goods-hardware-store, he’d show up close to noon
And to keep his faith, for lunch he ate potatoes with a spoon
That old green truck was loaded with his memories and his dreams
As well as kaki shirts and pants and gingham by the ream

He’d always block the tires so his old truck wouldn’t roll
And I bet he had the shadows of old pogroms on his soul
Of all the many millions he knew of one a least
An uncle, brother, nephew, a neighbor or a niece

I heard his wife took her own life in a very painful way
By drinking lye or DDT on a bleak, besotted day
Other’s lives are mysteries we cannot fathom well
I guess she changed a hell to heaven or heaven into hell

We don’t know where he came from and we don’t know where he went
But he still lives in our memories as strange and old and bent
And when I think about him now, I’d really like to know
Would he be surprised we remember him from 60 years ago?