By Ann von Dehsen, January 30, 2020 — When I was growing up in a small northern New Jersey town, a variety of people made house calls to our door on a regular basis.
My favorite was Milkman Mike who delivered dairy products to our silver milk box that sat 3 steps up next to our back door. The backdoor window faced our kitchen table at which the 4 of us were usually eating breakfast when Milkman Mike made deliveries. He always called, “Here comes Milkman Mike,” as he walked down the path, up the steps, filled the silver box, and waved to me and my sister as we ate our Cheerios.
One cold morning after an overnight snowstorm, Milkman Mike announced his arrival, made his way down the slippery path, and maneuvered the steps, but just as he turned to fill the silver box, he lost his footing, and my mother saw Milkman Mike fly past the kitchen window as she washed the dishes. We all ran out yelling, “Milkman Mike! Are you OK??” Luckily, he fell into a large snowdrift and only his pride was hurt.
Another house caller was the Fuller Brush man carrying his boxes of home cleaning products and portable brushes and sweepers. He was a stereotypical salesman — always talking, always complimentary, and always making corny jokes. My mother hardly ever bought anything but he would still come about once a month on random days and times, which my mother dreaded. Occasionally, she would hear his car in the driveway and yell, “Quick everyone — hide and don’t answer the door!”
We also had a classic neighborhood paperboy, about 13 years old! He’d ride his bike down the street hurling papers from his basket with 40% accuracy. Every Friday he’d come to our back door to collect his money usually when my mother was in the middle of making dinner. He would stay and ask questions about the ingredients, how to peel, chop, and sauté. His family moved away, but I hope he eventually became a famous chef.
We had a small pharmacy in town. The pharmacist would spend his lunch hour driving around town delivering prescriptions he had filled that morning to people who were down with the flu. When I was home from school with mono in my senior year in high school, our doctor (who lived nearby) would stop by on his way to the office about twice a week just to check the progress of my swollen glands.
I realize that in today’s world, we can pretty much order anything we need. But whether it be clothing, food, or furniture it will be ordered online, its arrival will be announced online, and in the rare instance that a delivery person hands you the item in person, there will be limited or no conversation and you will never see that deliveryman again. The whole transaction is cold because you can’t order kindness. I am grateful that I grew up in a warmer time.