The milk bottle showed up on your doorstep before you woke up. The milkman came in the dark and left it and you never saw him. You saw the bottle. The bottle was glass and the cream rose to the top and you could see the cream through the glass because the bottle told you the truth. The bottle did not have a label that said natural or organic or farm fresh. The bottle was from a farm and it was fresh and that was obvious because you could see it.

The milkman knew your order. Two quarts Monday. One quart Wednesday. The milkman kept a notebook and the notebook was his database and the database fit in his shirt pocket. He put the full bottle down and he picked up the empty bottle and the empty bottle went back to the dairy and the dairy washed it and filled it again. The bottle went back and forth between your kitchen and the cow and nobody threw anything away.

The milk bottle had a cardboard cap. You pushed the cap in with your thumb and the milk was there. No plastic. No twist cap. No safety seal. No expiration date printed in ink you cannot read. The milk was good because it came today and you drank it today. The calendar was the expiration date.

I had milk delivered on East Seventh Street until 1966. The truck was white. The milkman wore white. The bottle was clear. Everything about the milk was honest. Then the supermarket killed the milkman because the supermarket could sell milk cheaper and the supermarket did not come to your door. You went to the supermarket. The milk came in a carton you could not see through. The milk lost its transparency the day it lost its bottle.

See also: Penny Candy, Pay Window