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When I was a boy growing up in New Jersey in the 1960s, we had a milkman delivering milk to our doorstep. His name was Mr. Basille. He wore a white cap and drove a white truck.
Of course, he delivered (分发) more than milk. There was cheese, eggs and so on. If we needed to change our order, my mother would write a note — "Please add a bottle of buttermilk next delivery". Then she put the note and the empty bottles into the milk box. The next day, the buttermilk would magically appear.
There was also a close relationship between families and their milkmen. Mr. Basille even had a key to our house, for those times when it was so cold outside that we put the box in the house, so that the milk wouldn't freeze. And I remember Mr. Basille from time to time taking a break at our kitchen table, having a cup of tea and telling stories about his delivery.
I am sad that there is no home milk delivery today. Big companies produce cheaper milk, and milk is for sale everywhere. People may not need the milkman anymore.
Recently, I saw an old milk box in the countryside and it brought back my childhood memories. I took it home and put it outside the door. My son's friends always ask what it is. So I start telling stories of my boyhood, and of the milkman who brought us friendship with his milk.