Sales and Service Use Kitchen Entrance

Growing up on the dairy, we kids got used to a parade of people dropping by.  Our home was the office for the dairy, and the base for all operations.  But business was conducted wherever Dad happened to be, and that was just as likely to be at the breakfast table as in the actual office (especially since for years there WAS no office).  So we got used to the parade.

 

Breakfast was Dad's briefing time.  Every day, seven days a week, while we kids were getting ready for school, or eating breakfast, one or two employees would come into the kitchen and talk to Dad about the day's plans.  Sometimes hay haulers or salesmen would come early.  Sometimes they'd stay for coffee, usually not.  But some of these morning visitors became like family, especially when they saw us in our jammies with happy hair and bleary eyes.  This became less amusing when I was in high school.

Some were feed or pharmaceutical salesmen, like Mel, who had a hole in his throat, from a tracheotomy I guess.  I couldn't take my eyes off of the yawning cavity in his neck, even though I knew that staring was rude.  Mel didn't have a voice synthesizer (I'm sure there weren't any yet in the mid-70s), so to speak he had to take a huge breath through his nose, them breathe out a whole sentence or phrase as a guttural growl, completely devoid of inflection and charm.  Don't smoke, kiddies.

Some who tramped through the house were service people, like our electrician Leonard, whom most people called Sparky (maybe that's where I picked it up?) but whom we just called Leonard.  Our dog Fetch hated Leonard, but we didn't.

Bob the plumber was a really nice man who talked a blue streak.  He had the impish look of a leprechaun, and he was known to chuckle occasionally, but either he didn't understand Dad's humor or he just wouldn't stoop to it, because he never seemed to laugh at Dad's teasing.  This, of course, made Dad tease him even more.  Dad had a standard line when Bob showed up:  "Hi, Bob!  Is that Bob with one O, or two?"  Every time.  Never failed.  We kids deemed this question hilarious, and snickered into our hands, and stole looks at Bob for his reaction, but Bob never let on if he got the joke.  Eventually we all referred affectionately to Bob as "Bob with Two O's," but never to his face, of course.

Veterinarians were pretty infrequent visitors, though.  I'm sure that would be surprising to hear, if you know that there were 400 cows in the milking herd at any one time, and about 400 more cows and calves waiting their turns.  No, calling the vet was a big decision, because it was EXPENSIVE.  Dairymen learn to do a lot of stuff themselves and ignore the small stuff.  Dairy kids learn that a .22 rifle fixes what Dad and the vet can't, sometimes.  This rule applies to cows, dogs, and cats.

Bill the Wire Man was a nice old guy who used to call on Dad when we were living in Modesto.  Bill stopped by every once in a blue moon here in Orland, picking up scrap iron, and maybe other metals, too.  Some say my brother Mantel Man looks like Bill the Wire Man.  Mom doesn't say it.

Bud the Worm Man was a very lucky find.  He'd come to the dairy with his loader, scraper and dump trucks, and he'd scoop up cow manure and haul it away.  Now, getting rid of the manure on a dairy can be challenging, and certainly expensive.  If Bud didn't do it, Dad would have had to, so Bud could have all the dirt and manure he wanted for free.  He used it for his worm farm, I guess.  At least, I hope that's why he was called the Worm Man.

Some salesmen got to know Dad so well over the years that they got a good sense of his humor and his quirks, and if they were clever they would capitalize on that familiarity at Christmas.  Lots of people knew about Dad's love of lollipops and lemon drops, in those days, so salesmen wanting to make a good impression would bring lots of those by.  Somebody gave Dad a giant cow pie one year; it had been lacquered and was completely rigid and odor-free.  But you'd swear the thing was a freshie if you saw it on Dad's desk.  It was easily two feet in diameter and had two pen holders hot-glued to the top of it.  It was an Executive Cow Pie.  We gave it, eventually, to our school principal for some reason.

Jake the dairy supply store owner wins the award for most creative gift ever, however.  Jake knew well what Dad liked to eat for lunch -- same thing almost every day:  Campbell's Green Pea soup with saltines.  So Jake hot-glued a bunch of cans of that soup into a pyramid, glued to a base.  He then hung a plastic breeder's glove (I'll spare you, but it's a long clear plastic glove which reaches up to one's shoulder) from the top of the pyramid, and stuffed the glove full of Sunkist fruit chews, another of Dad's favorites, hateful little things.  I hope Jake got a big order out of that effort; had he known about Dad's love of saltwater taffy, he could have been set for life.

 

The most legendary visitors to the house over time, however, had nothing to do with the dairy business.  In fact, they are people who come by your house, I'm sure.  I'm talking about, of course, missionaries.  Pairs of fresh-faced Mormon boys in pressed white shirts, or two or three nicely-dressed Jehovah's Witnesses, would come to the door, as they do to everyone's homes.  Most people are polite but not interested, I guess; some even hide in their bedrooms and don't answer the door.  Not Dad.  He'd engage these poor unsuspecting churchgoers in lengthy discussions there at the doorstep, turning the tables on all of their arguments, and basically trying to talk them out of their religions.  After a while they stopped coming.  The rest of us could come out of our bedrooms at last.

Comments

[Jessica K]

When those guys came to our door, my dad would yell, "BARBARA! WHERE'S MY SHOTGUN?" They weren't really interested in converting us after that. What can I say? We live in Alabama.

[foolery]

No more chickens, no more horses. Never had pigs, geese, or donkeys, but summa the tenants had goats; pigs years ago. Just cows, cows, cows (my dad's, not mine).

[Snorpht UberPoot]

I don't fix anything. Might break a nail.
I engineer things. Clean hands and not to tired to drink heavily after 'work'.

I gotta download that google satellite spy thingie and see if you got chickens and goats running around your back yard...

more pix, more real estate!

[foolery]

I'm pretty sure it's the same thing they say about guys who know how to fix helicopters.

[Snorpht'll give ya the cream off the top any day]

Ya'll know what guys say about girls that know how to milk cows...

DONCHA?