Page 31 - The Woven Tale Press VOl. IV #4

Somewhere in the early 1980s, the dairy closed its doors. Most people picked up milk at the local su- permarket, along with their other groceries. Glass bottles gave way to waxed cardboard and plastic. Dad found a job at a local printing place, working until his retirement.
We had to time it just right, driving it as far as we could go but jumping off right before the car crashed into the neighbor’s garage door. No brakes, you know!
As always, he took pride in what he did, showing us all the ins and outs and how each machine worked.
And, if mom happened to be sitting on our front porch, sipping her coffee – well, I heard an oft repeated lec- ture letting me know that I’d be the death of her. I had that lecture down pat, because as soon as she went back inside, I did it all over again.
When we closed up his home, I found an old milk crate tucked away in the corner of his closet. I grinned, thinking about the race car he had built me out of old milk crates. I drove that car standing up – just like dad - until it fell apart, pulling it up to the corner, and then hurtling full speed to the end of our one-way street, and then turning left to continue down our neighbor’s driveway.
I took that crate home with me, and I see it each time I come down the stairs. I’ve scouted out old Highland Dairy glass bottles and tucked them here and there throughout my house, reminders of open truck doors that let in the sights and sounds of early morning magic, as we rode a sort of roller coaster through the streets of a sleepy town.
Bogdan’s parents, Anne and Ed Banach, with her son, Corey Bogdan.
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