Red Wagon and the Boy
Back when summers felt like they were made to last and neighbors actually knew each other’s dogs’ names, there was a fifth-grade boy named Dale and one very determined little red wagon. Now, this wasn’t some soulless plastic contraption with a Bluetooth tracker and cup holders. No sir—this was an honest-to-God, steel-framed, squeaky-wheeled, vegetable-hauling chariot of youth.
Dale’s father, a man of routine so precise you could set your watch by the sound of him unlacing his work boots, would come home, tie those laces neatly around his ankles like a Depression-era ballerina, and trade his hard hat for a garden hoe. With the broad hoe in one hand and the pointed one in the other, he’d head to the back corner of the yard where an L-shaped garden—practically Eden with a Midwestern zip code—spilled over with onions, radishes, lettuce, and tomatoes. And, of course, the gooseberry bush, whose fruit could pucker your face so hard your ancestors felt it.
While Dale was at school learning the finer points of long division and the limits of dodgeball, his mother would be at home lovingly trimming and washing the day’s bounty. She’d bundle them like edible bouquets, stack them neatly into the red wagon, and tuck in an envelope of coins so Dale could make change with the precision of a small-town Federal Reserve.
Each afternoon, Dale became a roving produce purveyor—rolling his wagon down the sidewalks with the purposeful wobble of a boy who knew he was bringing joy (and salad greens) to the masses. Housewives would step out onto porches with smiles ready, waiting not just for the lettuce, but for that boy—polite, sun-kissed, and towing the hope of dinnertime freshness behind him.
The final stop was always the judge’s house—Judge Stefan, devout Catholic, frequent frowner, father to a daughter with a lethal kickball shot and a ponytail that could lasso a young boy’s heart. Dale would linger, rearranging a bunch of radishes like he was composing symphonies in root vegetables, all while sneaking glances at the girl dominating Saint Pius X playground like a holy terror in saddle shoes.
Years passed. The wagon, retired. Dale, grown. And then came the great Indiana snowstorm—the kind that made cows rethink their life choices. Dale and his brothers cranked up the family tractor, clearing driveways buried deeper than a Baptist’s whiskey stash. At house after house, he’d knock on doors to offer help. And time and again, folks would pause, squint, then burst into recognition:
“Wait a second… weren’t you the little boy with the red wagon?”
And Dale—older now, boots wet, heart warm—would grin and say, “Yes, ma’am. That was me.”
And every single time, they’d smile a little longer. Because sometimes, a red wagon isn’t just a red wagon. It’s a memory on wheels. A salad with a side of kindness. And a reminder that the sweetest things in life often arrive squeaking down the sidewalk, just after school.
Friends, treasure your memories! Write them down or record them and share.
Julie Bolejack, MBA
