Editor’s note: This is another column in Bill Boyd’s new series, “The Way It Was,” about growing up in Marysville. Bill continues to work with the Union County Historical Society to obtain information for his stories.
–––
When I was a little kid, about five years old, I had a real sweet tooth. I was especially fond of some kind of cream filled chocolate cupcakes my mother got from the Omar Bakery truck that stopped at our house every week. It was a red and white truck that I would recognize anywhere, and when I saw it coming down the street, I would run out and sit on the front steps to wait for the delivery.
But it wasn’t just the cupcakes that I liked. I was also fond of the man who drove that truck. He was really friendly, and he often took a few minutes to visit with me and pet our little dog, Nicki. I never knew the man’s real name. To me, he was just “the Omar man,” the guy who drove the red and white truck, and over time, we became friends.
Then one day, my parents took me with them when they went to Columbus. They were going to do a little shopping and they dropped me off at my aunt’s house in Grandview. She had a beautiful flower garden in the lot next door, complete with a koi pond and grassy paths that wound their way among the beds. It was a wonderful place for a boy to play while his parents went shopping.
As I played there, I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw the Omar man’s red and white truck pull up and stop in front of my aunt’s house.
Oh wow, I had no idea that my friend also worked in Columbus, but I would recognize his truck anywhere. He would be so surprised to see me there. So I thought I would give him a special welcome.
I hid behind a shrub at the edge of the lawn, maybe 20 feet or so from the walk leading to my aunt’s front porch. As I peered through the bush, I saw him get out of the truck. I would recognize his brown uniform anywhere, and he was carrying his big basket full of baked goods. I waited until he was directly across from me, and then I dashed toward him. I threw my arms around his leg as tightly as I could, and I held on with all my might.
He stumbled a bit, and something fell out of his basket. When he righted himself, he tried to shake me off is leg, but he couldn’t do it. I held on like a leech. Oh boy, I thought it was great, because I knew he would be glad to see me. Finally, I released my grip and stepped back a few paces. Them I looked up into his eyes and smiled. Hey, wait a minute, this wasn’t the Omar man. Who was this guy?
“You are not the Omar man,” I said. “Where is the Omar man?
The man said nothing. He just picked up the items that had fallen from this basket. Then he looked at me with a puzzled look on his face, and made his delivery to my aunts front door.
I didn’t mention this whole thing to my aunt, nor to my parents. I waited until the following week when the real Omar man made his delivery to our house in Marysville. I gave him the full story about the man who was impersonating him. He explained that he wasn’t the only Omar man. He said they were all over Ohio, and even beyond. It was at that point that I started to feel embarrassed.
I think that was the first time I ever did something to embarrass myself. Over the years, of course, I have embarrassed myself quite a few times. In fact, I’m still doing it today.
Those wishing to contact Bill Boyd can e-mail him at williamboyd514@gmail.com