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.
Oh, and Joe Theisman, for the same reason.
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