Life of Wry

Every year I buy one bottle of eggnog. That’s enough to get us (read: me and Peter) through the holiday, but it’s not so much that we regret eggnog was ever invented. Since I’m limiting myself to one bottle per year, I buy the best that the Coop sells.. Straus (so, so good). And then I save the bottle (apparently), because who could recycle such a throwback? I have a bit of a container fetish anyway.

So.. now we have four (utterly unusable) bottles. I was probably cheaper in earlier years and bought cheapo cartons of eggnog. But now that I have this growing collection of Straus bottles, I’ll have to think on how I can put them to charming use.

Anyway.. as I was washing out 2023’s eggnog bottle, I got to thinking about Max — our Adohr milkman back in the day. I was remembering how he’d show up a couple-three times a week, carrying a metal basket loaded with bottles of milk (and eggs and butter). He’d march right up our long driveway, open the garage door (it was a manual hinged, pull-up kind), shimmy between our two cars (or maybe my dad had already gone for the day, leaving just my mom’s car to get around), knock on the utility room door (and yell “Adohr!”) to announce himself, and then proceed right into the house. He’d say hello to whoever was around and walk right over to the icebox (which.. it wasn’t really an icebox anymore, but that’s what our family always called the refrigerator) and load the goods. He’d do a mental inventory and let my mom know what he’d bring next time, and/or ask what she needed. One of us might suggest chocolate or strawberry milk, a suggestion that would probably be ignored. He’d take the empties and be on his way.

This was such a routine part of life in the suburbs, I never gave it a thought. Max was a regular in our kitchen; he knew all of our names, he even bought our family car one year when my dad was planning an upgrade.

Milkmen. Milkmen. Unlocked doors. Veritable strangers rummaging through your refrigerator.

Only a half century ago.

And then there was Wayne, our mailman. The entire neighborhood of kids absolutely loved Wayne. (My nickname for him was Waynebow.) Most days, he’d stick around shooting the shit with my mom, not for long, but long enough to be friendly. Often, kids would tag along with him on his route. And I’m not kidding at all when I say he used to give us rides in his mail truck. Like, lots of us at once, standing in the open doorway holding on for dear life, sitting on his lap or on the dash. Everyone, including all my brothers (and me), had special relationships with him. I can’t remember if we knew much about his personal life or where he lived; my mom probably did. (As I write this whole paragraph, my 2023 brain goes right to perverts and child abusers… but it was not that way back then. Don’t make me have to defend this point. I will defend Wayne and Max to the ends of the earth. Kind souls, both.)

We, of course, gave both Christmas cookies. I have a memory of my mom writing an annual holiday check for Max.. not sure if she did for Wayne (suspect the federal gov would look down on that).

It all seems a lot like Mayberry or Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood … but it was just a typical Southern California neighborhood in the 50s and 60s. Sure it’s similar to others’ experience. Seems unimaginable now.

I’m old.

Look what I found on the Interwebs…

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Also, happy new year. It’s been gloomy and grey all day. Sitting by the fire (writing this), planning a meat loaf dinner and baked potatoes with my two favorite guys tonight. How great is that?