Caught Off Guard

Caught Off Guard 

By John R. Greenwood 

“Hey Johnny, I got something I want you to have.” 

That was the text message I received on a random Tuesday afternoon. It was from my friend Chris Leske. 

Minutes later, we sit down for a quick cup of coffee in the maroon booth at the corner Stewart’s. Chris and I had been collaborating on a magazine article that would be a snapshot of his life as a musician, cook, and artist. It came out days earlier in the Simply Saratoga Spring 2022 Edition. I wanted others to see what makes Chris and his story worth reviving and sharing. Read it, and you’ll better understand the connection we shared and the time lapse between then and now. 

With two fresh coffees and another ten minutes of story swapping, neither of us could wait another minute. I’d been staring at the parcel wrapped in brown paper lying on the table between us. I’m far from Sherlock Holmes, I’m more of a Get Smart tripping on the clues type, but even I knew the package in front of me was a painting. 

“Well, go ahead, open it!” 

As I peeled off the masking tape and pulled back the paper, I had the same look as Ralphie Parker opening his Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model, air rifle with a compass in the stock. 

“Wow” 

I was overwhelmed and speechless. 

I was looking at ten years of my life rolled into one not-so-simple watercolor, all of it passing before my eyes like a Rolodex of scenes. Instantly, I envisioned those early morning milk deliveries to Lou’s/Comptons, Shirley’s, and the Spa City Diner; the long dark hall leading into the cellar of Lillians, and the steep decrepit stairs under the Tin & Lint; my Friday afternoon finale at the Parting Glass, Madame Jumel’s, Hatties, Mother Goldsmith, and Caffe Lena. It was a flood of warmth and nostalgia, a flash of joy, and a tinge of regret that it didn’t last longer. 

This was more than the gift of a painting; it was an artist’s look into my heart and soul. Our conversations and recollections over the last few months had manifested themselves into Chris's paintbrush and creative eye. It was his way of thanking me for my writing, while all I wanted was to convey how grateful I was for him opening up his artistic mind to me. 

For me and many, these are the snippets of life that make the dark days worth muscling through. It can be hard to wrestle away the negatives, but when that sun comes out, boy it feels good. It takes a unique eye to decipher the needs of others and then place them on a piece of canvas or in a musical note, and many of the people in my life have that skill-set. 

Banjo Man Chris “Lee” Leske is one of them, and I want to thank him for the gift that will keep on giving. 

My "Clem" painted Price's Dairy truck loading at the
dock of the now extinct Saratoga Dairy on Excelsior Ave. 

Photo is from Bill Barton's 
Facts and Tidbits of Saratoga's Dairy Industry From 
Early 1800's To 1988 

_________________________

The Painting  

By John R. Greenwood 

colors are secondary 

to the story shared

the gift, a painting 

wrapped in brown paper

years stacked neatly 

in a old red milk crate 

revived in an instant

the hours, the work, the friends

an artist’s gratitude 

overwhelms the receiver

memories framed and hung 

in reverence 

My Uncle Billy Moment

My Uncle Billy Moment

By John R. Greenwood

Have you ever experienced the same panic Uncle Billy did when he realized he misplaced the $8,000, Bailey Bros. Building and Loan deposit in the movie, "It's A Wonderful Life?" 

I have. 

It happened to me one summer day back in 1982. I was the proprietor of Price's Dairy in Saratoga Springs. Price's Dairy consisted of a couple of milk trucks and an employee (RIP David Mabb) or two. I delivered dairy products to places like Peppers Market, Lillian's, Mr. Ed's, Lou's Luncheonette/Compton's, Skidmore College, Saratoga Racecourse, Bruegger's Bagels, Saratoga Raceway, Pennell's, The Hall of Springs, Richie's Deli, Art Bullet's and Mo's Coffee Trucks, Professor Moriarty's, The Adelphi, Saratoga Sweets, Spring St. Market, Eartha's Kitchen, Shirley's, Scallions, Gaffney's, Spa City Diner, Hattie's, Saratoga Golf and Polo, Madame Jumel's, The Parting Glass, Mr. Mangini's Backstretch Kitchens, Anchor Inn, The Little Store, Anthony's Country Kitchen, The Country Corner Cafe, The Dining Car, The Kettle, Holiday Inn, Home of the Good Shepard, Joe Collins, Triangle Diner, The Old Firehouse, Sperry's, Tin & Lint, Humpty Dumpty, KFC, Long John Silvers, Caffe Lena, Interlaken, Moon's Lakehouse, Saratoga Pizza House, Pizza Hut, The Starting Gate, The Country Store, St. Clement's Infirmary, Ash Grove Inn, Siro's, The Reading Room, Lantern Lodge, Mrs. London's, Friendly Corner Grocery, Mr. Cherry at  Espey's Manufacturing, Lakeside Market, Saratoga Schools, DeGearo's, Scudder's, Waring's, Roma Imports, Tradewinds, Yaddo, Mother Goldsmiths, The Country Gentlemen, The Packhorse, S&M Market, and even a dozen or so home deliveries for while. 

The majority of my dairy products were produced at the Saratoga Dairy (Now a vacant lot on Excelsior Ave). Saratoga Dairy was the milk production side of Stewart's Ice Cream until 1995 when milk production was moved to the ice cream distribution plant in Greenfield and the two entities became Stewart's Shops Corp. Price's Dairy had cooler space and it's own access door at the Saratoga Dairy. We called the space "The Cage," because in the 60's and 70's there were a few milk dealers still around. Hyde's and Pitney's were at least two others who shared cooler space there. We called them cages because each dealer's space was separated by chicken wire surrounds. This allowed plenty of air flow and kept the orders from being mixed with each other. 

On a Friday in August I would make some 40 plus stops all within the city limits. I would have to return to the plant two or three times a day to take back empty milk crates and replenish our small trucks. It was hectic and hard work but I loved it and I am forever grateful to Victor Price for giving me the opportunity to run a business at such a young age. 

Running your own business is demanding, especially when you are in your early 20's and you are already supporting a wife and two young boys. My wife handled all the billing and calls from home and I spent 6-7 days a week keeping Saratoga supplied with dairy products. Much of my business was cash. In August it was lots of cash. More cash than I'd ever handled in my life. One day I had a small Adirondack Trust deposit bag stuffed full of cash and checks. The deposit was over $4,000 dollars. It was good portion of the weeks receivables and my wife handed it to me as I left the house. "Can you please stop at the bank and deposit this for me today? I have things I need to get done around the house. DON'T LOSE IT!" 

Sounds easy enough. 

Stopping at the bank wasn't the problem, ninety percent of my day was running up and down Broadway. With the Adirondack Trust smack dab in the middle it would take less than two minutes to run in and make the deposit. The problem lies in the "Uncle Billy" in me. I tend to struggle with more than two vegetables on my plate. The phrase, "He must have seen something shiny," was created with me in mind. I had several deliveries to make before I got close to the bank so I did the safest and most responsible thing I could think of. The milk trucks of the day had a hand controlled door between the cab and the back compartment. All you had to do was pull the lever toward you and the split door would part in the middle giving you access to the refrigerated compartment behind you. I threw the deposit bag in an empty milk crate in the back, put one or two on top to double up security, closed the door and continued my deliveries. Around four o'clock in the afternoon I was across town delivering to the Hall of Springs. I'd already logged a 12 hour day and was running out of steam. There was a big concert at SPAC that night and traffic was already choking the Avenue of Pines in both directions. 

That's when I had my Uncle Billy moment. 

I'd forgotten to make the deposit and the bank would be closing soon. 

THE BAG!!! 

What did I do with the bag??? 

Never in my life have I been so scared! 

My mind raced in a dozen directions. I couldn't focus or relax. What did I do with it? Did someone steal it? My heart was pounding. 

The feeling was almost worse than the, "I've misplaced my toddler panic." 

What did I do? 

What did I do? 

Calm down, think, breathe. 

My wife is going to kill me! But, not until I find the bag. She'll tell me to retrace my steps.

"Think John, think," she'll say in that, I-know-I-should-have-done-it-myself tone. 

She's right, again. 

Wait, that's it!

I unloaded milk crates at the Plant. It's got to be there somewhere! 

That's where it's easy to put myself in Uncle Billy's shaking boots. Now I'm hoping beyond hope that out of hundreds and hundreds of red milk crates piled high on the loading dock that one little deposit bag smaller than my lunch will turn up. The problem is I'm across town. Traffic is gridlocked. All the "real" trucks with hundreds of empties on them will be returning to the plant and unloading their empties on top of mine. It will be like finding a $4,000 needle in a milk crate haystack. 

I return to Saratoga Dairy without suffering a heart attack, getting a ticket, or running over anybody.

Where do I start? 

I jump out of the truck and start walking the stainless steel chain that circles the plant. The chain is like a set of train tracks carrying stacks of milk and empty milk crates from production, to the cooler, out to the dock and back in again. It hadn't been that long since I was here last so I was hoping my empties would be close at hand. There were lots of variables on what might happen to that deposit bag. The scariest one of course was it being covered by half gallons of milk and going back out into the world. The crates could get buried and not be used for weeks. At first I was too embarrassed to share my Uncle Billy moment but having worked side by side with every guy in the building I knew they would do anything to help. It's funny, the last thing I even considered was someone finding the bag and not saying anything. I've been blessed with being surrounded by George Bailey's throughout my life. 

My saving grace came in the form of a mechanical malfunction. There was a piece of equipment similar to a railroad track switch that funneled the stacks of empty crates into what was called the de-stacker. The crates would hang up there and at some point they would come tumbling down like dominoes. On any other day that would result in a swearing barrage, today was different. As I rounded the corner there was a pile of milk crates strewn across the floor. Buried in the middle of the pile was a blue bag and my future. My guardian angel will be a first year inductee to the Guardian Angel Hall of Fame. I don't recall who if anyone was there at the time. It was over thirty years ago. I do remember such an overwhelming sense of relief that I probably wanted to cry like a baby, but first I needed to get that money in the bank.

I watch Frank Capra's gem once a year with mixed emotion. On one side I enjoy the narrative and the acting. On the other I am always reminded of my Uncle Billy moment and how devastating it would have been if I hadn't recovered that deposit bag full of money. I decided to document this story after my friend Chris Barlow commented on how much a photograph I posted on Facebook looked like Bedford Falls. It was a George Bolster photograph of Broadway in Saratoga Springs taken in the winter around the1940's. 

When I was in the middle of writing this my wife asked what I was writing about. 

"Remember the time I lost the $4,000 bank deposit?" 

She looked at me with curious eyes. 

"You never told me about that!" 

My Uncle Billy moment was about to double in value. 

Some stories are better left alone. 

Thanks a lot Chris.  

Note: There are several links throughout this piece, each one bringing you to another one of my Saratoga Springs memories. Please take your time and look around. hopefully one will trigger a smile or two. 

Happy Holidays! 

A Halloween Text Message

A Halloween Text Message

By John R. Greenwood

The text message came from an old customer/friend of mine. It was none other than the humor packed, and perpetually smiling Ed Sakos. Ed was the owner of Saratoga's famous Mr. Ed’s Hot Dogs, a restaurant that fed thousands of hungry bar-goers and Broadway-walkers throughout the 1980’s. Ed was not only a good customer of mine when I was the proprietor of Price’s Dairy in those same years but he became a good friend. His love of antiques and dirty jokes made my milk deliveries and our daily visits something I miss to this day. Visiting Mr. Ed’s was an experience. The restaurant was narrow, deep and chock full of characters from all walks of life. Lawyers, business owners, policemen, drifters, and alcohol-soaked Skidmore students packed the place from 11am to 3am daily. It was a sad day when Ed escaped the high rent of Broadway and headed out Route #29 to the outskirts of the city and opened Mr. Ed’s Ice Cream Station. The city’s loss was the country’s gain.

Ed and I recently reunited via Facebook. We hadn’t seen each other in years so it was nice to be able to touch base on occasion even if it was electronically. It was 8am Saturday morning when I heard my cell phone buzzing. I was in the middle of something so I didn’t check it right away. It was 9:30 before I actually read the message. It was from Ed. It said, “FYI, there is a Price's Dairy milk box at an estate sale at 23 Elizabeth Lane off Lake Ave.”

I read it, then realized it had been an hour and a half since he sent his message. Damn! That thing will be gone for sure. People descend on estate sales like vultures. There’s no way that piece of Saratoga history will still be there. I showed my wife the message. She said, “GO!” I threw on my shoes, grabbed my keys and literally ran to my truck. I hit Northern Pines Rd like a volunteer fireman on a late night “fully involved” fire call. Vic Price must have been looking down on me today because every light turned green on my approach. I made the four mile drive in minutes. Elizabeth Lane was quiet. I didn’t see any activity at all. Not until I got toward the end of the street did I find a home with a “23” on it and a roll-off dumpster in the driveway. There were only a couple cars parked out front. Either the house was clean as a whistle or I was the luckiest man in town today. 

I headed across the lawn and still wasn’t sure if there was a sale or not. As I approached the house I saw a sign taped on the door leading into the garage. It said, “Come In”. There I found a man sitting behind a folding table and a woman standing there talking to him. I said hello and without hesitation asked if there was a Price’s Dairy milk box for sale. They both looked at each other unsure exactly what it was I was looking for. I quickly explained I’d gotten a text message from a friend who’d been there earlier. It took a second until it registered just what it was I was looking for. The women said,”Oh, the metal box! Yes, I know what you mean. I think it's in the cellar.” The man said he didn’t remember it going out the door so there was a good chance it was still down there. When I explained that I had purchased the business from Vic Price in 1979 and operated it for ten years they understood why I was so excited about the possibility of finding a remnant of my past. As I headed toward the cellar they both smiled and wished me, “Good luck.” 

The cellar stairs were narrow and made a sharp right at the bottom. I turned the corner and there in the dark shadows of #23 Elizabeth Lane was the end of the rainbow and my aluminum Price’s Dairy milk box. It was a lottery winning feeling times a bunch. I was grinning like a kid with a new bike. This time Mr. Ed had me smiling at something more than a man-walks-into-a-bar-joke. 

I wanted to yell out loud but instead I picked up the box and hugged it like a baby. When I got back upstairs to the garage the man and women were thrilled that I’d found my Holy Grail. The story’s ending got even better when I went to pay the $10 sticker price and was informed that everything was half price today! I did a internal fist pump. I couldn’t wait to send Mr. Ed a return text with a photo of my purchase attached.

I want to thank Ed Sakos for thinking about me today. When I asked why he didn’t buy the milk box when he’d been there earlier he replied that he figured I had a bunch of them. Even though I still had a handful of home deliveries when I bought the business in 1979 they were too expensive to maintain. When I went out of business in 1989 I didn’t have any boxes or home delivery customers left. Although I’m sad the era of home delivery has slowed to a trickle I am glad I was able to experience a taste of it. Now I can dust off my Price’s Dairy milk bottle and put it in the milk box where it belongs.

This was turning out to be a very “Happy Halloween.” 

Bonus! With our fourth grandson due in December this child's desk for $10 was the cherry on the top of my day. :)

*I would like to thank Ed Sakos for his text and friendship. I would also like to thank the folks at 23 Elizabeth Lane. In my haste I did not write your names down and in my excitement I could not recall them when I got home. I left you my card so if by chance you read this piece please send me your names so I can personally thank you for your hospitality and for being a part of my treasure hunt.

Used Truck

Used Truck
By John R. Greenwood

I'm in my hidden lunch spot thinking about what to write about when it dawns on me that I have a trunk full of stories about my days as a milkman. From 1979-1989 I was the owner operator of a Price's Dairy. Price's Dairy was not a farm nor a dairy it was a milk dealership. I bought my milk from Saratoga Dairy (Stewart's) and delivered it to institutions, restaurants and small Mom and Pop grocery stores around the Saratoga area. At the time I was a young father with a growing family and no capital, so the chance of me owning anything but old tired trucks was a pipe dream. All but one of the trucks I acquired with the business were over a decade old. The pride of the fleet was already six years old and the refrigeration unit on it was marginal at best. One day I was driving by the (now leveled) Ellsworth Ice Cream plant and noticed they had an old green and white *Chevy box truck sitting in the parking lot with a for sale sign on it. It was a beater to them but a real truck in my eyes. Since I sometimes purchased ice cream novelties from them I pulled into the plant and headed inside to inquire about the truck. The price was a firm $1500. Being young and impetuous I jumped at the opportunity to own a real truck and made an offer. I didn't have the full amount so I asked if they would take half in cash and the rest by the end of the month. With some hesitation and a handshake a deal was struck. I couldn't wait to put her to work. I quickly realized why it was for sale. The body was rotting underneath so it tilted back and sagged to one side, kind of like an old farmer with his John Deere hat askew. That didn't bother me a bit. As long it passed inspection I would be happy. Getting old trucks inspected is another story. Back then for $20 bucks you could get an inspection sticker for a wheelbarrow.

So, now I have my truck on the road and I head home where I will plug in the cooling system. The trucks back then didn't have their own diesel powered motors like today. Back then the trucks had what were called cold-plates. They were these giant wall or ceiling mounted plates that would frost up like a wet beer mug. They were huge metal blocks of ice that could last all day if you kept the truck doors closed and didn't let the humidity in. That's not an easy task in July. Now, there's a couple of problems with my lack of homework buying this truck. Number one it was an ice cream truck meant to deliver frozen ice cream not cold milk. There was no way to adjust these plates. They frozen solid and they worked perfectly, but I couldn't leave product on the truck overnight or it would be solid by 5am. I would have to unload the truck each night and reload it all in the morning. Because I spent the day climbing in and out of the truck, and because I had so many stops close to each other, the truck wouldn't have time to freeze the product during my deliveries. It worked out okay until the plates started to melt. That's when they would drip like a March downpour. I would be drenched with perspiration from the July heat and would have to get in that cold truck with ice water dripping down my neck all day long. It was a torturous to say the least. I blew $1500 I couldn't afford, I had to make it work.

Problem #2 almost sunk the Price's Dairy ship. All my other trucks were 110 volt single phase systems. Because this trucks freezer unit was built to freeze product it had to be a heavier duty unit, therefore it ran on a 220 volt three-phase system. I kept all my trucks in my yard a few miles out of town. I didn't have three-phase power on a residential site. Three-phase is used mostly in commercial applications. I didn't even know what it was before I bought the truck. Again my naivety was only overcome by my drive to put food on the table. I was in what you would call, "a pickle". I went to the Saratoga Dairy plant manager and explained my plight. We worked out a deal and they provided a spot for me to plug my truck in at a pole next to the plant. I would start my day there by grabbing the truck in the morning. I loaded my milk at the loading dock just a few feet away. It worked out for a year or so, then the old girl started to leak and burn more oil than a '65 Rambler. I remember the day I put a for sale sign on her windshield. It was a nice sunny day and my wife and I were just getting ready to take the boys for a ride. A young man, a little younger than me at the time, pulled in the driveway. He was looking for a truck to put a dump body on. His father was in the excavating business and the kid wanted to start out on his own. He had cash in his hand and the same look I did when I bought the truck from the Ellsworth's the summer before. I ran that truck for a year and I sold it for $1000. You can't lease a truck for a week for $500 bucks now. I guess I did alright after all. 


*The photo of the truck above is not the truck written about here. 

Saying Yes (Chapter #2)

Saying Yes (Chapter #2)
By John R. Greenwood

Circa. 1982

The day I said, "yes" to the challenge of overseeing a 70 year old man's life long family business changed my life in ways I will try to describe here. To understand Chapter #2 you should read Chapter#1 but it isn't necessary. 

It's hard to recall the details of those first few days running Price's Dairy for Vic Price. I was up to my eyeballs in a business I knew nothing about. Vic had three men working for him at the time. They knew what needed to be done, so from that perspective the business was in good hands. My challenge was to be sure I collected the receivables and not miss a payable. With zero business experience I would find this harder than loading and unloading a milk truck twice a day. 

I did survive the next few months. So did the men, the trucks, the accounts, and Price's Dairy. Vic was up and moving again. He was a tough bird and he proved it. His first questions when he returned were about money and who hadn't paid their milk bill. He ran a business for over forty years and had every inch of it tucked neatly in his head. There were no computers to help with billing or inventory in those days. You could hear Vic's mind humming when he spoke about his accounts. 

I continued helping Vic until he was back on his feet. Although a bit slower and more cautious he was functioning as well as any one-lung man of 70+ could function. 

After a couple months and what seemed like a couple of years Vic approached me with his second life altering question. He had an office in his garage. It was a comfortable space with an old oak desk, black rotary phone, and a drawer full of Saratoga phone books that dated back to the 1940's. Vic sat at his desk and asked me to sit down. I knew this was the end of the line. I would soon be returning to work at the Saratoga Dairy leaving Price's Dairy behind as a memory. What happened next was something I will never forget. Vic turned in his chair, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you want to buy Price's Dairy?" 

I stood there trying to absorb the question. I was married, twenty-four, paying a trailer payment and lot rent, with two little ones and bringing home less than $200 a week. We had $30 in the bank and I'm sure the car needed a new muffler or brakes. 

He said don't worry, we could work out the details. He said he wanted $10,000 dollars for the (vintage) trucks and routes. All he wanted was $100 per week in cash until the loan was paid. I would rent the cooler and office space in his garage on Caroline St. and he would continue to help me make the transition. He'd already spoken to my supervisor at the plant. They said they would support my decision. I sat there trying to comprehend what was happening. Being too young and too foolish to say, "Let me think about it" or " I need to talk to my wife." I simply looked the future in the eye and said, "Yes, of course!." 

I'm sure my memory has blurred some of the details of that period of time. I think I recall someone suggesting I ask Vic for his income tax returns so I could be sure I was acquiring a profitable entity. I also seem to recall a response like, "Do you want it or not?" All I know for sure is I bought a milk business with zero money down plus a $100 week. That decision would begin a ten year long adventure in and around the streets of Saratoga Springs. I encountered character after character. I made hundreds of friends and a couple of enemies. I learned how to make money and lose money. My sons got to ride in trucks while standing on milk crates. They sipped the end of Mom and Pop corner stores. They enjoyed Hattie Mosley hugs and Mr Ed's hot dogs when he was on Broadway. They knew all the Palmetto Fruit drivers and where every Pac Man machine in the city was located. I learned how to protest a bad check and fix broken milk trucks. I had a ball and in the end I learned the greatest life lesson of all. 

If fear of the unknown is why you always respond, "No thanks, not today." You will always regret that, "What if?"

I never wanted that in my basket. I know the answer to that question because I said, "Yes." 

I rediscovered one of my old trucks earlier this year.
Read about it here: The GMC

Eventually increased stress, decreasing profits, and growing debt brought me full circle back to Saratoga Dairy or what is now Stewart's Shops. I had my go at the American Dream. I did the best I could. I carry no regrets. In the end the security and stability of working under a larger umbrella proved to be a godsend. The rising cost of health care and the never ending hours self-employement carry can take a toll on you. A business that can run profitably and efficiently without a 24/7 commitment is rare. I can however enjoy the experience and lessons that being self-employed provided me and my family. 

Would I do it again if I could? 

"Yes, yes I would." 

Saying Yes (Chapter #1)

Saying Yes (Chapter #1)
By John R. Greenwood

This post was literally 'prompted' by my friend and fellow blogger Kim Gifford over at Pugs and Pics. Being a teacher and a natural rock of encouragement for others she posted a writing challenge to document a time you just said 'Yes' and didn't look back. The idea was to share a moment that without hesitation or taking the time to talk yourself out of something you simply threw caution to the wind and went for it. Here is my story and what the word 'Yes' did for me. 

The year was 1979. I was twenty-four years old, married, and the father of two baby boys. We were living in a mobile home, in a mobile home park. I was working at a milk plant making about $7.00 per hour. I would go with delivery drivers after my shift and work another eight hours for an extra few bucks under the table. That little bit of extra money would provide formula, diapers, and a stop a McDonalds. Times were sparse, but I was as alive as I've ever been. I was carving out a life for my family. I could go for days without rest. Relaxation was a trip to the state park with the boys for some fresh air and a sip of nature.

Part of my job at the time was putting up milk orders for outside vendors who would buy their milk and other dairy products from the plant where I worked. They were called milk dealers at the time. They would resell those products to restaurants, homes, hospitals, schools and places like the Saratoga Racecourse, Skidmore College, and the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. The dealers would place their orders the day before and I would pick and stage them for the next day. One of those milk dealers was named Victor Price. At the time he was 70 years old and in poor health. He was about to have a lung removed. He would need someone to run his business for him while he recuperated. Vic was a man tall in stature and frugal with money as well as words. He had lived through the Depression and it showed. He knew where every penny he ever earned came from and went. He didn't part with a buck easily and his milk trucks proved it. He was a little intimidating to me but I liked him. He had a confidence about him that kept my attention. One day he stood and hovered over my shoulder. He looked me in the eye and said,"Do you want to run my business for me? I need someone to manage the guys and the routes. You will collect money, pay bills, and maintain the trucks while I'm out." I stood there dumbfounded. It was a question I wasn't prepared to answer but I knew one thing--I had never refused an opportunity to better myself. I had only worked at the Plant a short time but I grabbed every chance I could to learn a new job or machine. I understood early that the more jobs you could do the more valuable you were. Vic must have seen that in me. Growing up through the Depression he saw it as survival. I was twenty-four, feeding a family of four on a shoe string. I had some sense of what he'd been through. He told me he had already spoken to the Plant Manager and asked if he could 'borrow' me for a couple of months. I would remain on the payroll of my employer and he would reimburse them for my wages. I would retain my benefits and at the same time be accepting a challenge that would provide experience to help fatten my work resume. What did I have to lose?

With an air of new found confidence I looked Mr. Price in the eye back and I answered,"Yes." What I didn't know at the time was another question would come charging at me a few months later. Again my courage would be tested, but for now I had survived my first test of dad courage. I took the security of the known and gambled my family's future on an unknown. Sometimes you go with your gut. It was a good feeling--but I was scared to death. 

* If you would like to read other posts related to Price's Dairy and my days working as a milkman at the end of an era, click on the Price's Dairy label below. Some are related more than others. 

Guess What I Found?

Guess What I Found? 

By John R. Greenwood

It was an emotional reunion; a milkman and his old friend ‘THE GMC’. That’s what we called him back then. “Load THE GMC” and “Take THE GMC”, were common words heard between the handful of employees who worked with me during the years I owned and operated Price’s Dairy. I was a small milk dealer in and around the Saratoga Springs area from 1979-1989. 

According to the registration in the windshield the last time THE GMC was driven on the road was 1984. It was around that time I sold THE GMC to Sam Holland a local business owner who operated Sam’s Glad Rag Saloon in Porters Corners, NY. At the time Sam planned to use the truck to refrigerate beer and soda during racing events on his property. I don’t remember how much I sold THE GMC for, but I do recall letting Sam drive it to his property and bring back the license plates the next day. That’s the way you did things back then. Sadly I found out that Sam passed away on 1/11/11.

So how did I the reunion come about? 

I wanted to find the truck for several months now. I was hopeful that it was still around and that Price’s Dairy was still visible on the sides. The lottery hit would have been to find, ‘Clem Signs’ written in the bottom right-hand corner. I knew where the bar and Sam’s property were located but I had never been there. Sam’s was a little off the beaten path but not far away. I got out of work early the other day so I thought I would take the opportunity to try and find THE GMC.  

I creeped down the dirt driveway and like a soldier returning home, panned the nearby homes looking for a familiar face. All I saw was a neon beer sign. That was close enough for me. I pulled up along side the bar and parked my truck. As I looked up I saw him. The rear doors of an old friend were peering out from behind a tired outbuilding. My heart rate jumped a notch. Suddenly I knew I was about to be reunited with an old friend from back-in-the-day. 

Not so quick, this was private property. THE GMC might remember me but to everyone else I was a stranger. I needed to go inside and ask permission to say hello to my old coworker. It would be hard to deny me a reunion. I approached the dimly lit bar with mild trepidation. The conversation began, “This might sound a little strange, but...” The explanation and introduction continued until I was sure the women tending bar trusted my crazy request. Sam's gracious daughter Lynn granted my wish and allowed me the opportunity to go out back and take some pictures of my dear old workhorse. 

Smiling from ear to ear, a heart hitting on every other beat, and with a mind bursting with vintage milkman memories, I approached THE GMC gently and respectfully. A surreal calm seemed to envelope the two of us. I had climbed in and out of this truck a thousand times. I could hear that strong GMC 4500 engine purring under the hood. The creak of those school bus type doors opening and closing in the wee hours of the morning echoed through the field. This was more than an old truck rusting in the high grass. This was a man’s life wrapped up in a moment. A feeling of contemplation and reflection lifted my spirit. 

This story may or may not have an affect on you. You may find it hard to understand why a rusty old relic could have such an emotional grasp on a man with half a century under his belt. It’s simple really. It was my life 24/7 for over a decade. It was also the prime of my life. I could picture my sons standing on a milk crate looking out the windows as we drove down Broadway. I remember subzero January's when I would drive around with a kerosene heater on the floor up front- a gentle glow reflecting off the windshield making it appear I invented the first nuclear reactor driven milk truck. There was the day I left an August bank deposit in one of the empty milk crates in the back, only to discover it missing later that day. The afternoon spent in a frantic heart wrenching search that mimicked Uncle Billy's in 'It's a Wonderful Life'. The instant relief felt when it was found circling the production line at the Saratoga Dairy. All those photographs reeling through my head, each one bringing me to the next. 

Today's find felt good. Instead of feeling sorrow for my rusty old friend I felt comforted he had a quiet resting place. He was free from car crushers and cluttered junkyards. He had grass around his tires and shade over his head. As I turned to walk away I glanced back and thought to myself; that's not such a bad way to end a career of back-breaking work. To be able to go out with your belly full of beer and have thirsty men milling around you with dirt in their boots and racing in their hearts, all yelling, "Go Man Go!" 

Finding Signs Of Signs

Finding Signs Of Signs

Photo supplied by Robert Wheaton Jr.of Saratoga Springs. 

The search continues and the surprises keep coming.  I received a message and this photo from Saratoga artist Robert J. Wheaton Jr. It's a photo of a framed sign Clem painted several years ago. The sign advertises custom framing and is done in calligraphy. Much of Clem's work seems to be in that same form. The Price's Dairy he painted on my truck was done in the same style. To me this indicates Clem had an artistic desire that ran deeper than simply painting signs for a living. Just hours after seeing this photo another area resident provided another Clem tip. I'm told Clem painted wallpaper designs in a home here in Saratoga.  My hope is to capture a photo and maybe some additional story line to go along with it. I will keep you posted. 

If you're new to my blog you may wonder what is fueling my search for remnants of long time Saratoga sign painter Walter "Clem" Clements. To be truthful I'm not totally sure of the reason. Part of it may be for nostalgic reasons. The main reason was to simply shove off from shore with an idea and a personal mission and see where the journey landed me. I was certain that as I floated along the river of this search that I would discover new friends, buried stories, and hidden treasure. All three of those appeared just days into my first public post about my search for a sign from Clem. As you can see above they are still arriving at my doorstep and I honestly believe this is just the tip of the iceberg. I found a family collection of scrapbooks, a vintage photo of Clem himself, a sign of a sign, and a hot lead to yet another one of Clem's works of art. My links and discoveries are to me what life is all about. It's not simply a yearning for, 'the good old days', it's much, much more than that. My desire to write and share has created a need for connections and fresh ideas. I am not content spending my time waiting for life to come to me. I have enjoyed a good full life so far. In my mind it is just beginning in many ways. I want to see what's out there. I want to write about it because from everything I have witnessed since posting my first story on this blog a few years ago, there are thousands of others out there wanting the same thing. I made a conscious decision to act on that desire and see what happens. I have not been disappointed. Please stayed tuned for more signs, they seem to be everywhere. 

* Robert Wheaton Jr. manages the art department at Soave Faire in Saratoga. The frame in the photo can be found at their store on Broadway.