Home Delivery

As the Age of Convenience began to unfold after the war, the suburbs, fast filling with boomer families, would now enjoy the added convenience of home delivery. In the 1950s and 60s, a variety of products were delivered directly to boomer homes on a regular basis. Among these were merchandise, goods and services that ran from milk to cloth diapers; tins of potato chips to cases of soda pop; knife sharpening to doctor visits.

Milk had been delivered to homes for decades in Europe and the U.S. before it reached suburbia. As the burbs grew, so did the need for the fresh product. After all, milk was a daily part of our beverage consumption, starting with milk for breakfast cereal, on to a mid-morning milk break at school, followed by milk at lunch time, then a glass of milk for dinner, more often than not. Keeping enough milk on hand for a growing family each week meant several trips to the local market.

In the late 1950s and early 60s, Mister Boomer recalls getting Sealtest milk delivered to his home. The milkman would leave two to four glass quart bottles of fresh milk by the front door twice a week. The bottles were beautiful; functional forms made of straight sides and a heavily-lipped rounded top. The stopper was a waxed cardboard that held a little tab in the center to use for pulling it open.

We always received a mix of chocolate and white, since Mister B was not a fan of the plain variety. Mister B recalls when his father would tell him of the milk deliveries of his youth. In the winter, the milk would freeze, pushing the stopper out and the frozen cream to the top. He would break off some of the cream and eat it like a popsicle. In these times, though, the milk never sat long enough outside to become heated or frozen, depending on the season. A few years later, the dairy gave each house on the route an insulated aluminum box, which held permanent residence on our front porch. This extended the time you could leave the milk outside before bringing it into the house for refrigeration. The box could hold up to four quart bottles, plus the occasional cottage cheese Mister B’s mother would add to the order. No one in the family enjoyed the cottage cheese as much as Mister B’s mother. She would add canned peaches or fruit cocktail to it and sometimes placed it on an iceberg lettuce leaf. Cottage cheese was all the rage, and was considered a great lo-cal diet dish at the time, even with the addition of the heavy-syrup canned fruit. Along with the milk and products was a hand-written invoice of the day’s tally. Once a month or so, we’d leave an envelope containing the total — in cash — in the box along with the empties.

The milkman arrived early to ensure that fresh milk was available for breakfast. During the summer months, when we’d be up and out of the house by 7:00 a.m., the neighborhood kids gathered and waited for the milk truck to turn down the block. When the milkman stepped out of his truck, two kids would step in the open passenger door and crawl above the two cooling cabinets on either side of the truck back. On one side ice cream and frozen treats were kept, while the other housed milk and cottage cheese. The milkman also carried eggs. The entire walls and ceiling were covered with aluminum, insulating the inside of the truck. Ice was kept in the coolers, so it always felt cool inside. We’d lay in the 24 inches of space left between the insulated cooler cabinets and the truck roof, always facing forward, absorbing the coolness of the truck as the summer day began heating up. Our driver would return and, acting oblivious to our presence, would surge the truck forward two houses at a time for the next deliveries. We’d stay in the truck above the wall cabinets until he reached near the top of the block. At that point we’d drop down from our perches and bid farewell to our ride. One day a neighbor told Mister Boomer that the milkman knew we were there all along. It did make perfect sense to Mister B. We didn’t try to conceal ourselves, and he often had to reach into the back of the truck to place the glass empties into the wooden crates on the floor and retrieve more fresh products. Yet he rarely spoke to us or acknowledged our presence. It didn’t matter; to us it was an adventure.

Early on, diaper service trucks from a couple of different companies would visit the block. In an age when women were required to hand wash and bleach baby diapers, a service was a godsend. Disposable diapers were yet to be introduced. Mister Boomer recalls at an early age, the ammonia smell of the diaper pail that held the diaper discharges of his baby sister. Mister B’s mother would surely have appreciated being relieved of the drudgery of having to clean the toxic cloths.

Once a month, the knife sharpening truck would pay the block a visit. The driver would bring his truck to a slow crawl and ring his bell: one clang followed by a period of silence, then repeat it, until front doors swung open and housewives or their children came to the street bearing knives and scissors, being careful not to run with them. The man would stop his truck. In the back, large windows were cut to open up the entire truck on both sides. He’d start up the grinder on his bench and go to work. We’d watch the sparks fly as he honed each blade until the sharpness returned and each order fulfilled. One time, Mister B’s father had removed the blade from the lawn mower and asked that we get it sharpened when the man arrived. The side of his truck listed lawn mower blades along with scissors and knives, so we brought the heavy blade to him. A few careful strokes on the grinder, then some hand work with a file finished the job, revealing shiny, sharp metal where there was dullness before.

Doctors regularly made house calls when patients were too sick to travel to the office. Carrying their little black leather bags and always dressed in a suit and tie, the authoritative silhouette of the doctor was always recognizable as he made his way up the walkways to the neighborhood’s front doors. While a rarity in the Mister Boomer household, the family doc did pay the house a few visits. The glass thermometer for temperature taking was often followed by the dreaded penicillin shot. That would spell out a vulnerability to siblings, like Mister B’s brother, who could then target the “shot arm.”

Today, direct home delivery of products is still experienced in some parts of the country, though seriously diminished from our boomer youth days. Some enterprising food businesses have cropped up to sell groceries online that are delivered to your door. There are also complete meals available for delivery. For the most part, the home delivery business has been transformed. Now, it’s not unusual for the children or grandchildren of boomers to order almost anything online and have it delivered to their doors. Nowadays, if the person coming to the door is wearing a uniform, though, it’ll most likely be UPS, FedEx or the U.S. Postal Service.

What’s your best home delivery memory, boomers?

I Age, You Age, We All Age for Discounts

Mister Boomer’s mother-in-law always says, “Pick an age you like and stick with it.” For that reason she was, like Jack Benny, 39 for many years. Eventually she started to admit her age. That time coincided with her reaching an age that would officially qualify her as a senior citizen. Why the “sudden” turnaround? “Well, I want my discount!” she would say, “I’ve earned it.”

Now it’s time for boomers to join the senior discount crowd. The final batch of baby boomers will reach age 50 by 2014. Those of us who have passed this milestone know exactly what happens the moment the odometer of life clicks to the half-century mark: an envelope arrives from AARP.

Mister B has heard many a boomer react with disdain and alarm at the “invitation” to join the world’s largest senior organization. Most received that initial envelope with all the the robust verve they once reserved for the “greetings” from their Uncle Sam. Ignored at best, ripped to shreds at the other end of the spectrum, an invite from AARP is often treated as tantamount to impending doom. For boomers who would rather “burn out than fade away,” they still voice the creed, “hope I die before get old.”

Yet, AARP is unrelenting. Like a hair band guitar solo, they grab that note and repeat it until they beat you into submission. Once you get that first invitation, you can bet your sweet bippy more invitations will continue to arrive.

Mister Boomer ignored the invite for many years. Uncertain about any group that would have him for a member, Mister B’s boomer values — now updated to read, “never trust anyone over fifty … make that sixty.. would you believe seventy…” held steadfast. Then friends and family got into the act and asked if he had joined. “No,” was the terse response, “I’m too young.” A harangue would inevitably ensue, the speaker relating the many benefits of membership.

MisterBmembershipcard
Actual adulterated photo illustration by Mister Boomer. Your discount mileage may vary. Not an offer or endorsement.

Finally, Mister Boomer’s sister hit a nerve. She extolled the virtues of the AARP discount. Semantically different than a SENIOR discount, an AARP discount was for members. With a family trip pending, Mister B succumbed to the siren call of the discount.

A few weeks later, the membership card arrived. Sooner than you can say, “Adam West is Batman,” the card delivered on its promises. WHAM! 15% off a car rental reservation; BAM! 20% off a hotel stay; then two weeks later, POW! 30% off eyeglasses! Mister B had saved enough in the first month to pay for the membership for at least another decade. By then, the “real” senior discount will kick in. Well, there is still a chance to “die young and stay pretty.” In the meantime, bring on the discounts!

As our 70-million strong generation ages, we may very well break the back of the traditional senior discount. The Social Security eligibility age is now in play, so what’s to stop the senior discount from going the way of the one-hit wonder?

If you’re like Mister Boomer, you may not be all that concerned with any organization. After all, when asked what we were rebelling against, didn’t we answer, “what you got?” Here, however, experience is the best teacher. The next time that AARP invitation arrives, check it out.

What do you think, boomers? Are you ready to save some moolah or do you already know that membership has its privileges?