‘Milkman’ was the call in those good old days

In the December/January issue of AARP, The Magazine, a publication I’ve been receiving for many a decade, I spotted a short story, written by one Peter Moore, titled “The Milkman Cometh.”

I have been under the impression, apparently false, that the milkman “went-eth” for good a very long time ago, shortly after I peddled my last quart for Greenwood Dairy in 1960. But this story claims milkmen are again rising from their beds before the chickens, loading their trucks and making their rounds just as they once did.

Well I remember. Greenwood Dairy was located in Burrville at the corner of Greenwoods Road and Torringford Street in Torrington, on the property of Ferrarotti’s dairy farm. John Weingart and John Dombrowski were co-owners. These men knew how to work.

John W. operated the dairy and bottled the milk every morning. John D. had a huge route in Winsted which he peddled every morning. Jimmy Weingart, John’s eldest son, had a route in Torrington, as big as Dombrowski’s. Secondoldest son Ronnie Weingart worked in the dairy with his father. Ronnie knew all the routes and every bit as much about the dairy and the running of it as his father. A third route was handled by the late Rene Picard of Winsted. Bobby Weingart, the youngest brother, helped out occasionally on one or another of the trucks but was too young for the regular work force.

In 1957, I was a young married guy, not long out of the service. I needed a job. Jimmy W. was a former school mate and school bus friend and companion. A chance meeting at Burrville Store one afternoon resulted in Jimmy recommending me for employment to his father and suddenly I had a job and an income.

The work was hard and not always smooth, but I have felt indebted to John W., John D., Jimmy and Ronnie ever since. Bobby too. The owners gave me a paying job when I needed it, and the “boys” showed me the ropes. I had three years of employment with Greenwood, before discovering the newspaper business.

Working in the dairy was testing. Forty-quart milk cans are heavy and the machinery used in the bottling requires vigilance, attention to every sanitary rule and much heavy lifting. Rubber boots are an absolute requirement, since, though drainage is good, the floor is constantly wet.

Ronnie broke me in, under John W.’s stern and watchful eye, in the dairy. We did our work, and did it right, but while we were at it, we had great fun. The farmers who dropped their cans of milk every morning were the subjects of much of our hilarity although of course they didn’t know it.

I learned the “inside’’ work and then Rene’s route and then John D.’s route. Rene, a good-natured, meticulous guy, liked to sing as he drove between stops. He had a good heart, and a patient nature. During summers, when we peddled to cottages around West Hill Pond, he taught me to call out “milk man’’ as I approached the cottage entrance, not wanting to surprise anyone. Customers loved to kibitz with him. His route extended around parts of Norfolk and Colebrook. At Colebrook Store, he often made a sandwich from fresh bread and a great wheel of cheese. Umm-um. Me too.

John D. taught me his route, so that I could fill in for him when he went, with his wife, to Florida for two weeks in winter. We loaded up in the dark hours, made stop after stop along Winsted’s Green Woods Road, and then around the street of that town.

The droll John D. could be tremendously entertaining. One morning he sent me high-stepping through the gloom up a long driveway with my metal carrier. Whoa, a SKUNK! I saw the stinker slinking away and, through an unexplainable miracle, avoided him and his arsenal. Safely returning, I told John D. about my close call. He said, drily, “You should have choked him to death.”

I had three years of the milk business and I’ll never be sorry for even a day of it. It was part — an important part — of my growing up.