Our bread came in a cart, fresh from the bakery. This isn’t a photo of the actual cart but it’s a dead ringer.
The Bakery was a family business and the daughter would drive the cart. How I admired her! She’d lightly jump, both feet landing on the ground, and open the back door of her cart. The smell of bread would rush out, overpowering everyone within 3 blocks.
The mothers in the street would come out and choose a loaf.
Somedays we’d run out of bread and I’d be sent up to the bakers to buy a ‘High Tin’. Heaven! I’d carry the bread home in a paper bag, nibbling the crust all the way, slowing my feet as I neared our house so I could get that extra bit of warm, steamy bread. It was well worth getting a scolding for.