Ode' to Snuffy

I never knew his name; everybody in East St. Louis just called him 'Snuffy." My first recollection of Snuffy was back in  the summer of 1946. Snuffy drove a horse-drawn wagon through the neighborhood alleys collecting garbage and trash. Okay, clarification; an alley was that easement passage way between the backyards of homes...everybody had alleys. Today, people erect fences on property lines so we are not tempted to visit with neighbors. Consequently, you don't find many alleys and besides folks became more sophisticated over time and began placing the garbage and trash 'in front' of their homes for pick-up.

First time I saw Snuffy he looked to be perhaps in his late seventies. When I left home for college in 1957 he still appeared to be in his seventies. I suppose he once had teeth but I could not verify. Snuffy charged  twenty-five cents a week per home; I remember because I paid Snuffy on a couple of Saturdays. Snuffy was not one for conversation; I heard him say yep, nope and occasionally give a little grunt. Both Snuffy and his horse reeked of distinct aroma.

Snuffy lived in a little house in lower Washington Park. He did not have electricity or indoor plumbing. His outhouse sat within two arms length of the same creek where me and my friends would crawdad fish; never gave any thought back in the day.  (That's all I have to say about that now). Besides his horse, Snuffy had a hand full of chickens  (most people did) and two goats. Damnedest sight; the goats grazed on grass growing on the roof of Snuffy's little shanty-house.

These days, I put my trash in one large container and my recyclables in another container. I roll them to the front curb each Monday morning. Some time during the day two different huge trucks with long pinching-type arms pull up to the curb and in robot fashion the mechanical arms lift my junk and toss it into the truck's hopper-bin. The driver of the vehicle never gets off his ass; Snuffy would have worked circles around this punk boy!

Along with the disappearance of the Snuffys of the American landscape, I cannot recall the last time I heard the call of the 'push-cart' guy yelling out from the streets, "HOT TAMALES; GET YOUR RED HOTS!"