Milk Tastes Better From Glass Bottles

Saturday Afternoon 1982

I am nine years old and getting ready for a special occasion. I stand in front of the only full length mirror in the house, taking one last look at my clothes. I have chosen my favorite skirt, my only skirt, the pink one with the little flowers on it. My blouse is white with the buttons fastened all the way up to the Peter Pan collar. I brush my hair one final time, admiring the way it hangs all the way down my back, almost reaching my bottom. Having been told that vanity is a sin, I try not to get caught.

My Daddy is getting ready in the kitchen, rinsing out the empty glass milk bottles and placing them into the cardboard container designed to hold four. This is an important step because when you bring your bottles back with you they’re worth 5 cents each, 20 cents total, which was a lot of money when Daddy was a boy.

We go out the side door together. Daddy wears his London Fog trench coat, I, my white cardigan sweater. It is about eight blocks to Senn’s, the drive thru dairy, but we walk instead of taking the car.

Daddy bought his car especially for family vacations and church, which is four blocks away. The car sits patiently in the driveway all week waiting for Sunday morning while Daddy takes the bus to and from work.

The bottles aren’t very heavy when they’re empty. I swing them a little bit while I walk, talking on and on about this and about that to fill in the silence.

To reach Senn’s we have to cross Powell Blvd. which is five lanes wide and always thick with traffic. The corner where we cross offers no crosswalk, but there is an island to stand on in the middle lane. I always envision I am playing a real life version of Frogger when I cross this street.

After managing the five lane obstacle we walk up to the drive thru. My Daddy goes up to the man in the white uniform and tells him his order. I watch carefully as the man removes the four empty bottles and slips four full bottles into the cardboard carrier. Sometimes for a special treat Daddy will get one chocolate milk. Today is not one of those days. The man hands Daddy a white sack, folded twice at the top. Daddy pays, then carefully places the bills returned to him in his wallet, making sure they are in numerical order. The coins go into a little rubber coin holder that always reminds me of a mouth when Daddy squeezes it. I am not curious about the white sack. It will most definitely hold one half gallon of ice cream, chocolate chip mint. That is Daddy’s favorite and the only kind he buys.

My Dad hands me the milk, he carries the sack and off we go. Powell Blvd. is soon upon us again and so the game of trying to get across the street begins. Halfway across at last we pause on the island waiting to make it the rest of the way.

Before I am aware of what is happening, my Dad is crossing without me. I run after him and soon feel my self slipping, falling. A car is screeching to a halt nearby. I am in the street bleeding, little rocks stuck in my knees, face and elbows. I look up to see my Daddy running back toward me as I cry and hold my arms out to him. Standing in front of me now he quickly picks up the milk holder and stops to examine each bottle for cracks as cars honk all around. Satisfied that no damage has been done to the glass bottles he takes my hand and pulls me across the street.

Now I carry the white paper bag, my Dad has the four bottles of milk and the silence swirls around us, whispering of my failure, as the blood runs down my legs, reaching my sandals.