The Magical Milkman

The Magical Milkman

I can hear him coming. The dark night still clings to velvet shadows and silent surroundings, but the gentle hum of an approaching vehicle and the distant echoes of clinking glass chime his momentary arrival. Quickly, and careful not to awaken my sleeping sister, I leave the warm comfort of my bedcovers and steal softly across the room to my magic window. In anticipation, I gaze down the lonely avenue and await what has become a special secret known only to myself. Even he doesn’t know the power of his presence. Perhaps he remains a secret because I have claimed this solitary sequence as my own. Peace and warm consolation fill my soul in the ordinary actions of one just doing his job.

In the starkness of the day, the events of predawn hours seem unimportant and mundane. But when you are one of five siblings, and the middle one at that, having something unique to call your own is truly a rarity. It seems that everything must be divided up and shared. Everyone must get a piece. This little secret will sound silly to someone who doesn’t understand my childish concerns or my limited ability to help make things right. This moment is something I don’t want to share. This moment is my escape.

His approach is marked by the soft, golden glow of a single lightbulb in the cab of his vehicle. It illuminates his motions and defines the contents of his workspace. Just arriving at the curb of my family’s home is a simple, unassuming milk truck. You see, my hero is the Winder Dairy milkman. With him comes continuity, security, and hope. As I look down from my perch at my second-story windowsill, I can see him gathering the items to be delivered to a small metal box on our back doorstep. There are several gallons of rich, creamy milk, a dozen fresh eggs, and cool butter, just waiting to be whipped into morning’s hot pancakes. Sometimes, freshly-baked bread or ice-cold cottage cheese make their way into the empty milk box. However, in addition to the stuff that satisfies the body, what the milkman always delivers to me is the sense that everything will be okay. I’m going to be all right.

To a young girl, the adult struggles of life, making ends meet, working the job, feeding the family, and so forth, go mostly unnoticed. School and play, and friends take up most of our concentration. But lately, things haven’t been so easy for me to take for granted. Little things, like George Anast, the grocer, slipping a surprise box of Sweets Chocolate Orange Sticks into our bag of groceries, or his kind wife telling us cheerfully, “Don’t worry, you can pay for this next week,” begin to send cryptic messages of anxiety to my mind. I start to pay more attention to the subtle signals at home, and realize that maybe my world isn’t as secure as I had thought.

And now, even life itself seems questionable. At least for my best friend. I met Tanya when I was five years old. We became friends, right off the bat. Tanya lives just down the street from me, and we are together as much as we are allowed to be. Summertime is the best. We love to play outside, flying our kites in the sugar beet field across the street, or floating homemade boats down the irrigation canal. We walk around the block on tin can stilts and hold fish pond sales from our upper bedroom windows. Tanya’s dad taught us to shoot bows and arrows into a hay bale target in her backyard. Tanya’s birthday is coming up soon, on October 6.

We are 13 years old now, and the end of summer is closing in. We are eagerly looking forward to beginning the eighth grade. We’ve been planning our new school clothes and practicing for ninth-grade cheerleader tryouts. We want to be ready, even though tryouts are still a year away. School started last month at Valley Junior High. But Tanya started to get sick. She looks a little yellow, and she tires easily. She’s been missing more and more school. Even her 14th birthday didn’t cheer her up. The doctors say Tanya is really sick: Leukemia. I really don’t know what Leukemia is, but everything’s going to be okay, isn’t it? Tanya will get better, come back to school with me, and be next year’s head cheerleader, won’t she? I’m praying for her every night. God can hear me, can’t he?

Now, here he is again. My nighttime friend. Right on time, just like clockwork. Bringing food for the table, and a consistency to life and living. I watch him make his deliveries to my neighbor and my neighbor’s neighbor, until, with a touch of sadness, I can’t see him anymore. I wonder, for a moment, if my magical milkman can do miracles. And then, I realize that he is always doing miracles. He comes in the dark of night, sure and steady, with no one but me to witness the comfort that he delivers to this one little girl, who watches and waits for something she can count on.

Before I climb back into my beckoning bed, I once again reflect upon the scene and know that I have witnessed a truly amazing thing. All IS right with my world. I am loved and being taken care of. My family will be provided for, for there are special angels all around us. Alone at the window, I thank God for His goodness. I pray for my friend. I trust that God will take care of her, as well. A new day awaits. One filled with hope and happiness. I will walk down the street and spend a few minutes with Tanya. I’ll notice and appreciate the homemade potato soup that my mother has made more delicious with some fresh butter. I’ll play with my younger sisters and maybe read them a story or two. Maybe this nighttime solitary secret doesn’t need to be so secret. Maybe it is something I can share. Something I want to share.