My father had a tolerable tenor voice and would sing the song when he’d had a drink. It made my mother laugh. He and she—barely out of their twenties and exceedingly happy—handed out little boxed starch samples and cotton hot pads to the country girls, who were flattered to receive such gifts at a time when nobody had anything. The Depression. It was enough to get them started and to make a lasting impression when they went to the Piggly Wiggly. The car’s back seat was full of hot pads and samples.

Imagine it. You have to, because there’s no other way: this being their whole life. On the road with no great cares. No children. Family far away. My father wore a felt hat in the winter and a straw one in summer. He smoked—they both did. His face was assuming a maturer look—again, the Irish lip, the thin mouth, and thinning hair. He had an awareness of himself. He was on his way—almost suddenly—to being who he would be. He experienced some trouble with his teeth that necessitated a bridge. A partial. He was six foot two and had begun to take on weight—above two-twenty. He owned two suits, a brown and a blue, and adored his work, which agreed with his obliging nature. About himself, he said he was “a businessman.” His boss—a Mr. Hoyt—trusted him, as did his customers in all the tiny towns. He didn’t make a lot—less than two hundred a month, with expenses. But they didn’t spend much. And he’d found a thing he could do. Sell. Be liked. Make friends. The military wouldn’t be a worry. A heart murmur had been detected, and his feet were flat. Plus, his age—too young for the first war, too old if a second one started, which eventually it did.

The two of them began to know more people—on the road, other salesmen encountered at wholesale grocer conventions or at the cooking schools or in hotel lobbies.