I guess all of old Fort Collins is not lost. I haven’t seen a milk truck in years. Well, that’s not completely true. Last year, I tried getting milk delivered once a week from the organic dairy in Salem, but it didn’t feel the same as the milk man coming around every day to pick up your empties and read the new order rolled up and tucked into the top of a bottle.
When we moved to town in 1959, Dad didn’t get work as a musician right away and put in some time on a milk truck. Poudre Valley Creamery, no doubt, unless it was Graves. The experienced milkman who was showing him the route pointed out a German Shepherd dog looking silently at them. “That dog,” he said, “Used to come running up at me every single day, barking and snapping at me. Finally, I decided to do something about it. I got a milk carton in my hand, and when he came at me, I hit him right on the head with it. The thing burst open when I did it, and got milk all over the stupid dog. He hasn’t given me any trouble at all since then.” The dog never bothered Dad, either.