The ****ermilk Run About once a month my mother would crave a treat that she always said was her favorite from childhood. This treasured treat was fresh ****ermilk. A dairy product that never seemed to stay in my mouth for very long. I just couldn't swallow it. To me it had a horrible taste. We would load up the old Ford Woodie after church, pack a picnic, and head for the rural areas outside of Bangor looking for that coveted yard sign. "****ermilk for sale. Bring your own jugs." She spotted one of those signs through a hail of dust that was often kicked up from the unpaved roads we always seemed to be traveling down. As we neared the farm we all pee you'd the place as the smells from their barns on that hot day were so pungent you could almost taste it. My mother directed my dad to make his turn after she selected which driveway to take to get to the milk house. Barn cats, licking their paws, took their business elsewhere as we approached. While waiting for someone to come we popped our heads in the milk house door and " Jumpin up Judas Priest!" Look at all of those flies. The place was humming with them. The only other time we ever saw that many flies on something was when National Geographic Magazine photographed a small child in Africa. We respond to a "Hello there" from the farmer's wife. A good stout woman. Close to heifer certification. Jeepers! Me and my sister Janice drop out of the conversation and follow a few farm dogs around the dumpy place and we look down back by the tree line. WOW! Coupes, sedans,and lines of old tractors and defunct farm machinery used up long ago. We descend upon this collection of rusted vehicles for a better look-see. We pitch a few rocks from a nearby stone wall. Our aim finds it's target to the trunk of a 1940 Ford sedan. Whack! What a dent. We are called back as mother wants to head home with her 2 gallons of fresh ****ermilk. As we cross the pasture I spot a window on the second floor of the old house and it had a pillow stuffed in one of the openings where a pane of gl*** once resided. My memory told me that I had seen this before on these trips into the country. Those old homes along the way had one or two of these blue and white striped pillows bulging from the sash. Now I know why. Poverty. As we approach the old Woodie the women are still conversing and we climb in the back, take a seat, and slide the rear window open so that we can feed the skinny dogs some bologna left over from lunch. We start to giggle, my sister and I, because we are hearing people's names being used and we as city kids think these names are for country bumpkins. I mean who in the world could be smarter than a kid from the city of Bangor. We were so rude that we seemed to take unkindness to a new level. The names used that really tickled us into hysterics were Percy, Merton, Mary Marion, and dirty Girt. She was the old lady that made Italian sandwiches at a gas station in the village of Kenduskeag. That place was a dump and she was just as bad. We made faces that we thought would match the crazy names we heard. Crossed eyes for Percy, an odd tilt of our cap to suggest stupidity when we used the name Merton. Mother told us to behave and my father gets the clue to start the car and move on. On the way home we stare at the goop sloshing around in those old mayonnaise jars and make fake gagging sounds that annoy my mother. Mission accomplished. The best days of our lives were spent traveling those old back roads of Maine. By meeting these shy quiet people from the country we were reminded that folks from a life of humble beginnings didn't make them ungrateful or envious. We as city kids, on the other hand, were rude insensitive and frankly misbehaved in comparison to our country cousins. I am embarr***ed now at my behavior when I was very young. Looking back now at those memorable trips to the country and given the opportunity I always choose to drive a back road to see what is around the next corner. " ****ermilk for sale. Bring your own jugs."
The Jalopy Journal
