Our milk was delivered to our home every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. We had an insulated milk box on the front porch in which Mom would leave her order if we were not at home. However, if we were there, it was not uncommon for us to be eating breakfast and the delivery man to enter through the back door to put our order in the refrigerator. The milkman was a pseudo-family member and was occasionally offered a piece of toast or slab of bacon on his way out the door. This seamless intrusion into our daily lives was as normal as letting the dog out at night. The Milkman also delivered ice cream and he knew that with all us in attendance, breakfast the perfect time to promote the newest flavor. It wasn’t a tough sell, our Mom loved ice cream and was still getting it delivered weekly when she passed away. Home milk delivery faded away by the mid sixties and with its demise left our daily weather report and major source for neighborhood gossip. To a certain extent, so did our sense of community trust. It would still be a long time before Mom and Dad locked the doors to our house, even at night, but that security measure was on the horizon. Our milkman was a trusted member of our extended family and we counted on him for much more than milk delivery. If we had the sniffles, he had the home remedy, if our dog was lost, he kept watch for him. When we were on vacation he also checked on the house. It has been said that the times in the sixties were much more simple. This is true, however we were much more connected to the outside world by this one kind delivery man than any electronic device could ever duplicate.
