It’s all gone retro, we’ve got a milkman again and not a moment too soon. It all came about by the power of social media, I found the local supplier listed and hey presto, 4 litres of milk twice a week, thank you very much. Milk is high priority in this household, I have two teenagers and they’re both cereal killers.
I know who the milkman is, he’s a familiar figure in our local area delivering milk to shops. One of the benefits of country life is dispensing with six degrees of separation. The milkman’s Mum was a nurse in the local GP surgery, I met her once, a lovely woman. As I was using my married name she didn’t know the lineage, around here it’s not, “what’s your name”…it’s “who are ye?” When I told her who I was she told me an interesting story which showed we had a connection. Many years ago her husband phoned her to her workplace. This was unusual and was the first time he’d done it. He phoned her to tell her that a good friend had died suddenly, that good friend was my Dad.
My Dad had another one of those retro occupations, a bread man-or to give him his correct title, a bread server. He worked for Mother’s Pride. Memories of a van belonging to a bread man in the 1970s evokes a certain mix of aromas. Savoury, sweet and the scent of the plastic front seat of the van all mingled with the smell of fresh bread. There’s really nothing like it. Out he would go at silly o’clock to fill his van at the depot, have the craic with his co-workers and friends and begin his rounds. Every day was different and I know for a fact that his customers would be very happy to see him. Even now, over 40 years since his sudden tragic death, I meet people who fondly remember him, mainly because he was the bearer of weekly treats of buns, cakes and crisps.
Dad also helped out his customers, above and beyond the call of duty. Like many others in his line of work he visited customers living in rural and remote areas, they had no means of transport and relied on my Dad and other bread men to collect their pensions, collect their newspapers, bring them other groceries, fix their cookers and in some cases, (and this is from another bread man) go and collect their customer’s new big knickers that had been ordered from the big shop in the town. I jest not.
I wonder about that life, long gone. It pleases and heartens me that in these days of lockdown the old fashioned occupations are staging a comeback due to public demand. I even see some folks can have their newspapers delivered.
It feels like we are living in an age of nostalgia. We’re finding out that it’s not all about the big brands, shopping local is now more important than ever. Home deliveries are popping up all over the shop (see what I did there?). I was able to buy a special birthday gift for a close friend via WhatsApp video call, pay for it and even had it delivered as her workplace was across the street from the gift shop.
Maybe we can take some of our extra spare time to be grateful for the all the subtle changes and the people who have shown their true colours to be our real helpers. The workers that we really need and can rely on. So, a big round of applause to them all, the heroes of our time. The girl inside of me who was 9 years old in 1979 is delighted to know that things have gone full circle. Long may it continue.
Lisa Wells is a disabled single parent living in a rural village in Co Down, the name of which hardly anyone can pronounce and only the residents know how to find. She has been writing a blog on life indoors for a few years.
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