The clop, clop,clop sound of horse’s hooves on the street where my grandmother lived. The horse was huge, dirty white, and pulled the milk truck that delivered glass bottles of milk and cream directly to the house.
being fascinated with the black leather blinders that kept the horse to task. I always got to feed him a carrot, and stroke his nose: an experience that both frightened and exhilarated me. The horse’s mane was long and unkempt, and huge tufts of hair sprouted from above his clodhopper hooves. He was docile and to me, quite beautiful, despite his rather decrepit appearance.
The milkman (and they were all men) wore a cap, and carried the milk bottles in a metal carrier to the most fascinating spot in the house: the little rectangular box, with hinged doors outside and inside that let the good things in (and I imagined the bad things out).
In the special spot with its simple slip clasp he would place those bottles of pure thick milk and cream, their waxy cardboard tops ready to be peeled away for that first sweet taste of the “cream that always rises to the top”.
Empty bottles removed.
Sweet memories of a simpler time.
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