It wasn’t Sonic, but a reasonable, ’50s facsimile by HELEN LEDFORD reprinted from our July 12, 2013, issue Cows mooed in surrounding meadows and milk trucks meandered through the rural countryside, delivering the bovines’ bottled product to the doorsteps of customers. Meanwhile, my sleepy little hometown enjoyed the family-owned business that was a dairy/restaurant nestled near the heart of town, which boasted no traffic lights. Our neighbors had sold their farm and built the little dairy and eatery. In addition to homemade pies, plate lunches, hot dogs, hamburgers and French fries were all definitely crowd-pleasers. As an older teenager, and for a while after I married, I worked the lunch counter and tables at the restaurant. The wait staff wore yellow uniforms with little checked aprons, similar to those worn in the ‘70s TV show “Alice.” Because we were policed each day
by the owners to see if we were wearing hair nets – which at that time were mandatory by law – I reluctantly donned that ugly little thing each morning (though my very short, ducktail hairdo was sprayed generously). Strangely enough, restaurant workers today freely sport long, flowing hair, flopping pony tails, or dreadlocks. One of my jobs was to produce new menus each morning, which I did on an old manual Royal typewriter. With the use of now-vintage carbon paper, duplicates were completed in record time. Most of the food was prepared by kitchen workers, but I and my fellow waitresses manned the grill. All French fries were freshly cut,
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MARCH 31 - APRIL 6, 2022
The Northwest Observer
and sandwich filling prepared by hand. I still carry the unpleasant memory of opening a can of pimento and coming face to face, in its contents, with an unfortunate, bleachedwhite, processed worm! We quickly learned the habits of all regular customers. Serving school teachers, pastors, some dignitaries, and town officials kept us on our toes. The strangest breakfast I was asked to prepare was one raw egg in a glass with the contents of a 10-cent package of peanuts, which I pounded to powder with the handle of a knife. This was an elderly lady’s regular fare, and for my trouble I received a 10-cent tip. And then there were the two frugal maiden ladies who always ordered one cup of coffee and a glass of water. After drinking the water, one sister would proceed to pour the small pitcher of cream in her glass and consume it. Then (several times) they would call for a coffee refill and more cream. Everyone was on to their tricks but none of us had the heart to intervene (bless their miserly little souls). Curb service was loads of fun. When cars pulled up and horns blew, we tripped out (checking our makeup on the way). It was exciting to spot an out-of-state license plate, which was unusual for our •one-horse Totally local since 1996 town with narrow little roads.
I’ll never forget the day a brandnew red vehicle, shiny with chrome and complete with fins, eased into the curb service area. Rushing out, I faced a drop-dead gorgeous driver (resembling the “Fonz”), who ordered a burger, fries and large drink. In those days we had to use trays with a suction device placed against the car window. Wearing my best smile, I sashayed out and carefully eased the tray into position, but the eager fellow grabbed it. Soon, drink, fries, slaw, burger, etc., were slopped onto the wonderfully new white leather seats. I hastily retreated, sent my understanding boss out, and watched as the mess was cleaned up and apologies were made. Two of my brothers drove dairy trucks, and one of them made the delicious ice cream that was served. Another brother was on bottle-washing detail, and among other duties, made the buttermilk in a large, wooden churn which tumbled automatically. Its cantankerous lid had to be fastened with metal clamps. One day the lid blew, creating a streaming river of buttermilk. Milk routes could be quite eventful, as my brother Wilbur could confirm. Stopping at a service station for a Moon Pie and a drink, he visited with the proprietor who had a pet fox. Upon leaving the establishment, “Bro” was back on his way. He was, to say the least, flabbergasted when his friend’s crafty, longtailed creature (who unbeknownst to him had boarded the vehicle), leapt on his back! That was the day that the truck, with all its cargo, almost hit the ditch. I especially liked Friday and Saturday nights at the dairy bar when the school crowd showed up, visiting from car to car, radios blaring with the music of the times. Extra help was there during that time to oversee the extra volume of shakes, sundaes, and Coke floats that were in high demand. Nope, it wasn’t Sonic, and we did not scoot around on roller skates. But it was a place and an era reminiscent of the nostalgic “Happy Days” television show, leaving many indelible memories which money could never buy.
