Photo source: London Room Photo Collection PG F 509 London Public Library, Photo Credit – Harry Fones
I remember…
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.
I was fascinated by 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 he carried the milk bottles in a metal carrier to the most interesting spot in the house. The little square box with hinged doors both outside and in that let the good things in (and I always assumed the bad things out).
In that special spot with its simple clasp those bottles of pure thick milk and cream would be placed, their waxy cardboard tops ready to be peeled away for that first sweet taste of the “cream that always rises to the top”.
Bottles in, empty bottles removed. Sweet memories of a simpler time.
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