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Calcium

James Bates

    My grandfather was a milkman. He was an oversized, jovial man and he and Grandma lived in a small town in southern Minnesota near the Iowa border. As far back as I can remember, a couple of times a year Mom would put me on the bus and send me down there to stay with them for a week or two. I loved it, especially when Grandpa let me ride along on his deliveries with him.
    “You sit right here and ride next to me,” he’d say, getting me situated on the jump seat next to him. Then off we’d go. He had an old milkman’s hat he’d give me to wear. We’d get up at four in the morning and drive his old car to the creamery where he’d light up his pipe, drink a cup of coffee, and shoot the breeze with his buddies for a few minutes.
    Then he’d say, “Okay, Dougie, let’s get to work.”
    We’d load up his gleaming white with yellow trim milk truck with bottles of whole milk, 2% and skim, cartons of cottage cheese, and even some bottles of chocolate milk and orange drink. Then we’d set out on his rounds, the bottles in their metal baskets clinking and clacking in the back. I loved it and I loved my Grandpa. Mom had her problems at home and I was an only child. Being with Grandpa was an escape from all of that.
    The summer when I was eight years old was the most memorable one. It was the summer I got to drive the milk truck, but not for the reason you might think like Grandpa had decided to be nice and let me drive it for fun. He was nice but he wasn’t stupid. No way he’d let an eight-year-old kid drive a truck like that.
    Here’s what happened. It was a warm July morning and the sun was just coming up. We had finished our rounds and were heading back to the creamery. We were driving down a quiet residential street. People were just starting to come outside to check on the weather and pick up their newspapers and milk. It looked like it was going to be a perfect summer day.
    I was sitting in what he called the 'jump seat,’ a round seat on the passenger’s side, looking out the door on my side watching the world go by. I saw a guy working on a wooden boat in his driveway,
    “Look, Grandpa. Cool boat, huh?”
    He glanced over and said, “Yeah. It is.” He was quiet for a moment and then added, “Say, how about if you and I go fishing later today?”
    “Sounds great.”
    I watched the guy and his boat as we drove by and continued down the street. I was as happy as could be yip-yappy away and enjoying the aroma of Grandpa’s pipe tobacco when the truck began to swerve sharply to the left.
    I turned quickly. “Oh, my, god!” Grandpa was slumping over the steering wheel. He was grabbing onto the steering wheel for balance and had jerked the wheel.
    “Grandpa!” I yelled, standing up and reaching for him. His foot was jammed on the accelerator and we were speeding up. I used my foot to kick his foot off the pedal, but we were still going fast, maybe twenty miles an hour, and were heading toward a row of cars parked in the street on the left.
    I grabbed the wheel and forced it to the right as Grandpa fell toward me. With my right arm, I held him as best I could and lay him as gently as I could on the floorboard.
    There was spittle running down his whiskered chin and his face was turning grey.
    I had to get control of the truck so I got in the driver’s seat and steered down the middle of the street, swerving from right to left and back again, and I yanked the wheel back and forth. In the back, bottles crashed to the floor. In my mind, I wondered if I was going to be punished for breaking them. But I had to save Grandpa and keep the truck from crashing.
    I was a small kid, but I knew where the break was and was able to reach it with my foot and steer at the same time. Eventually, I was able to slow the truck down and finally get it stopped. By then neighbors had run out.
    “Help me,” I called out to them. “My Grandpa’s hurt.”
    They called the police and an ambulance. It seemed to take forever to get there but really was only a few minutes. I started crying. I didn’t want my grandpa to die.
    He didn’t. Later that day in the hospital Grandpa smiled at me, “You did good, Dougie. Real good.”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I just hugged him, tubes coming out of him and all. “I love you, Grandpa,” I said.
    “I love you, too,” he told me.
    I came back year after year to help Grandpa with his route. When I was fourteen and after Mom remarried and moved to Portland, Oregon, I moved in with Grandpa and Grandma. I continued to help him with his route and then took over running it after Grandpa retired. I ran it by myself for twenty years and still would be running it today if times hadn’t changed.
    Now, I work in the creamery. We specialize in organic milk. People think that calcium is better than in regular milk. I really don’t know. All I know is driving that milk truck with Grandpa was the best job I ever had. After I took over from him, driving it by myself was pretty good, too.

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