Page 29 - The Woven Tale Press VOl. IV #4

But Dad’s girls, well they had brains in their heads, and by God, he expected us to use them. And, girl or boy, it didn’t matter. Girls could carry milk bottles
as well as any boy. I don’t know if any other driver pressed their kids into duty, but I do know that all four of us willingly took our turns helping.
“Rumbling into a neighbor- hood, Dad shouted his
instructions over the clamor of clanging bottles. He seemed to know each customer’s normal order by heart.”
Rumbling into a neighborhood, Dad shouted his in- structions over the clamor of clanging bottles. He seemed to know each customer’s normal order by heart.
Paula, grab two large greens and one small orange. Denise, you’ll need a large orange and a container of Half and Half.
My disappointment in myself would make the tears roll down my cheeks. I had let my dad down.
Stopping the truck in the middle of the road – no one else was up and about in this tiny rural one-red-light town – he’d point to the respective homes, and off we’d go, cradling our precious cargoes in our arms. Climbing the steps to old-fashioned railed porches, we’d look for the square silver metal container, red let- tering stating it to be the property of Highland Dairies.
But Dad would spring into action, hopping out of the truck. Handing us a replacement bottle, and sending us on our way, he’d clear out the glass.
Opening the lid, lowering the glass bottles carefully, being sure to check for a note that might change the order, we’d deposit the bottles ever so carefully and scamper quickly back to the truck.
It’s okay to break a few milk bottles, girls. No big deal; it’s glass and milk. The world is not coming to an end. Don’t make a big problem out of a small one. Now, let’s go and make this happen.
But every now and then, catastrophe struck. We’d lose our grip on a bottle and watch it explode onto the sidewalk, strewing glass and milk everywhere.
Scrambling back into the truck, we would take up our stations, and with a roar, we’d take off while Dad is- sued instructions. Sometimes, other than the appro- priate colors and sizes of milk, notes would be added about family pets. We needed to know which ones were all bark, and which ones, given a chance, would be delighted to take a chunk out of us.
Stunned into immobility, we wouldn’t know where to look. Had we woken up someone sound asleep in the comfort of their bed? What would Dad say? Were we going to get yelled at?
But it was the geese that terrified us. As we pulled into a local farm, the geese would appear out of nowhere. Swarms of geese, honking, raising themselves up their full height, staking out their territory like a New York City gang. Clearly, we didn’t wear the right colors, and those geese meant to take us out.
“Now, watch,” said Dad. Grabbing a pencil, he would extend it toward the geese. Hissing loudly, the gang leader leaned forward and snapped that pencil in half.
“If he can do it to a pencil, think about your fingers, girls. Don’t pet the geese. Don’t go near the geese, ok?
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