A MILKMAN’S CHRISTMAS
By Randy Randall
Most people would be aghast at having to work on Christmas Day. Of all
holidays, this one seems to be the most valued when it comes to time off and
spending time with the family. But it’s not all that bad, working on
Christmas. Many people do, and if you’ve got the right attitude, the
experience can be memorable, as I found out many, many years ago when I
worked with my Dad delivering the milk.
Dad was a milkman. He drove a milk truck door to door, and for some reason
the dairy delivered milk on Christmas day no matter what. Unless of course
Christmas happened to fall on a Sunday, and then, blessedly, Dad would have
the day off, and we could celebrate together. But that seldom happened. More
often the holiday occurred during the week, and Dad ran the milk route on
Christmas just as he did on every other workday. We kids grew up celebrating
our Christmas on Christmas Eve, and spending Christmas Day waiting for Dad
to drive into the yard arriving home in time for Christmas dinner.
Early on, Mom and Dad decided we could open presents on Christmas Eve, and,
for many years, after attending Christmas Eve services, our milkman’s family
would open gifts, munch chocolates and drink hot cocoa late into Christmas
Eve. When we were very small, Santa Claus would somehow manage to come
during the night so that there would be a few additional presents waiting
for us Christmas morning, even though Dad was up and long gone by the time
we opened them.
As soon as I was old enough, maybe nine or ten, Dad decided I could go along
on the milk route, and that became our Christmas tradition, for me to go
along delivering milk with my dad. The idea was that I could help run the
milk and eggs into the houses so that we could get through the route faster
and get home to Christmas dinner quicker. But really, I went along to keep
Dad company, and it was an adventure for a young boy. I knew all about his
milk truck and how to pull the lever to swing the bifold doors open when we
stopped at a driveway.
Dad would wake me way before dawn on Christmas morning. Mom would get up,
too, and make a hearty breakfast for both of us. She would have laid out my
winter clothes and boots so that I wouldn’t waste time searching for things
and hold Dad up. He would spill his coffee into the saucer to cool it, gulp
it down, and we’d head off along the snowy roads to the dairy.
The milk trucks, with heating blankets thrown over the engines, were all
lined up in the yard outside the bottling plant. Dad would brush the snow
off his Divco truck, scrape the windshield clear, start the engine, and then
back up to the loading dock to pick up our milk, eggs, and ice cream. Other
drivers would be arriving, and their headlights would sweep across the
packed snow of the dairy parking lot, causing the snow crystals to sparkle.
I always enjoyed the banter between the drivers and the guys working on the
loading dock. I came in for some good-natured ribbing, too.
“Hey Bob, where’d you find the skinny kid?”
“You going to teach him to drive the truck?”
“Hey sonny, was Santa good to you last night?”
“Take it easy, Bob. See you this afternoon.”
“Merry Christmas.”
And we were off.
Dad drove the Divco standing up, stomping on the clutch and shifting the
gears. My job was to point the little fan mounted on the dash at the
windshield to help with defrosting. There was a big gray heater on the
right-hand side where I could sit on the step and feel the warm air blow
into the cab. Daylight would just be coming when we would grind to a stop at
the end of a driveway to make our first delivery on Christmas morning.
In those days we used milk carriers, aluminum baskets with handles, in which
we could set quarts of milk, a pound of butter, a pint of “half and half,”
and a dozen eggs. Dad would check the order book, place the articles in the
carrier, and point me up the driveway.
He’d say, “Go around to the back. Open the door, and the refrigerator is on
the right. Put the things inside. If you see anyone, wish them a Merry
Christmas. I’ll do this next house and meet you back here.”
Imagine Christmas morning, when almost all the kids in Maine were up early
tearing into their presents and bleary-eyed parents were working on their
first cup of coffee, and here came the milkman’s son into a private home
right into the midst of their family Christmas. It was like living in
someone else’s world. I’d learned on other trips to rap on the door and
announce in a clear voice “Milkman” when I let myself into the kitchen. Many
times I set my carrier on the kitchen table, and, while I was transferring
the milk into the fridge, I would peek through the doorway and see the
children in the living room around the Christmas tree opening their gifts.
Sometimes you could get in and get out without notice. Other times there
would be grown-ups or kids moving around, but they took no notice of you, as
if you were invisible. Then there were the women, often times wearing just
their bathrobes, who would come into the kitchen and ask,
“Who is it?”
“Milkman,” I’d say. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, are you Bob’s kid?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Bob not coming in?”
“No Ma’am. We’re hurrying to get home for Christmas dinner.”
“Oh…well, here give this to him.”
She’d give me a package wrapped in colored tissue paper with a bow on top or
a pound cake wrapped in tinfoil, and out I’d go, back to the truck where I’d
find Dad ready to shift into first gear and move on to the next stop. We had
a milk case on the floor where we stored the loot. We were often amazed by
the intimate nature of the gifts some of the customers gave Dad, things like
underwear and socks or a shirt and cologne and maybe a belt and a couple of
neckties. Of course there were all the homemade goodies, too, like fudge,
squares, and fruitcakes. We kids loved to sample all the treats and vote on
which was the best of the bunch.
“Put the empties in back,” Dad would say, and I’d carefully distribute the
glass milk bottles into the empty cases while the old Divco shuddered and
bounced along the snow-covered road.
On we went with the roads pretty much to ourselves, screeching to a stop by
a mailbox, pulling the lever to swing open the door (I had to swing from the
lever like a monkey to get it to flop open), walking up to house after
house, knocking, pulling open the entry-way door, and putting the milk into
the storage box. Sometimes there would be a note, rolled up and shoved into
the neck of an empty bottle.
“Merry Christmas, Bob,” it might read. “Please knock as we have a little
something for you.” Then I’d have to go back to the truck and get Dad to
make that delivery.
Dad kept flipping the pages of his route book, and I watched as the pages
thinned down on one side of the three-ring binder and piled up on the other
because I knew when all the pages had been flipped over, we could go home.
Mom would have fixed us a snack, so around nine or ten Dad would find a
place to stop alongside the road. We’d wolf down the sandwiches and share a
bottle of ice-cold chocolate milk. Before starting again, Dad would spring
the doors open just a little so we could see the ground, and we’d both pee
into the snow. He kept a milk can filled with water on the truck for
flushing.
When the sun was fully up, the day would fly by. We’d begin to see more kids
outside trying their new sleds or skates. With any luck we would arrive back
at the dairy by one or one thirty, even though it felt like we’d been on the
road for days. After unloading the truck and tagging and stacking our night
carry-overs in the giant cooler, the last stop was the dayroom where all the
drivers cashed up and put in their load slips for the next day. There was a
coffee maker, and Dad would have a cup and find a small carton of chocolate
milk for me.
What a greeting we would receive when we arrived home. Mother and sister
would be eagerly waiting for us to see how we had made out, and grandmother
and grandfather as well as aunts and uncles would have arrived also for
Christmas dinner. The grandparents and aunts were always good for one or two
more gifts.
And speaking of gifts—I’ve considered many times how my parents made the
best of a poor situation by shifting our Christmas celebration from
Christmas Day back to Christmas Eve and by letting me ride the milk route
with Dad. For me it was a wonderful experience in growing up. Delivering the
milk allowed me to see how other people lived. It taught me how to interact
with people, how to treat people with respect, to speak up, and to take
pride in my own work. It built my self-esteem and gave me responsibility.
Those lessons have stood by me all my life and have helped me enjoy working
with and meeting people. It also took away much of the mystique of strangers
and helped me see that other people were mostly just like us. Delivering the
milk on Christmas also taught me the importance of family and showed me that
Christmas is what you make of it, not what someone else may decree it should
be or what glitzy advertisers want you to believe it takes to celebrate the
holiday. That knowledge, too, was a wonderful gift. No wonder I have such
fond memories of Christmas years ago and smile whenever I chance to see an
old Divco milk truck rusting away in a hay field or junkyard.
