THE HONEST MILKMAN

MILKMAN AND HIS DIVCO  TRUCK

 Most of those who read my blog on line are under fifty years of age and probably have little to no recollection of home milk delivery which was all but over by 1976. Therefore, a brief history lesson is in order. Before the advent of modern preservatives, milk did not have a long shelf life. It also had to be packaged in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers.  Maximum container size was one quart.  Most households required fresh milk several times a week, if not daily. Add to that the fact that the convenience stores we all take for granted, had not yet planted themselves on every corner.  Enter the milkman.  His job was to go thru a neighborhood house by house and deliver the dairy goods required by each household.  Milk was the staple, but, often butter, eggs, and fruit juices were also available.  Next to each doorstep was a small insulated box.  The consumer left a note in the box to let the milkman know what to deliver that day along with empty bottles to return from the previous delivery.  Once a week the milkman left a bill in the box for goods received.  In turn, the consumer left a cash payment that the milkman retrieved on his next visit.  In those days people seldom used checks for small payment amounts.  Also, in those days, most people were honest and would not steal the cash out of a milk box. Milk was delivered in special trucks made by DIVCO  (Detroit Industrial Vehicles COmpany) which allowed the milkman to drive while standing up and exit the truck from either side.  The trucks were not refrigerated relying on dry ice to keep the milk cold. DIVCO ceased manufacturing after nearly sixty years in 1986.  Today DIVCO trucks are highly sought after by collectors.  Milkmen always wore uniforms, as did most blue collar professionals years ago.  Compare the smartly uniformed gas station attendant or cab driver of yesteryear, complete with hat and bow tie, to the last guy who pumped your gas, or, drove you to the airport.

 In 1966 a woman contacted me to service her piano.  She complained that many of the keys were making no sound at all and many more keys were sluggish and hard to push down.  I knew from experience that something had gotten into the mechanism of the piano.  Over the years I have extracted pencils, toys, eye glasses, coins, jewelry, photographs, greeting cards, paper money, dead rodents, you name it.  In the case of this piano it was approximately $1700.00 in cash.  About twelve thousand dollars in 2017 money.  Her husband, a milkman, was napping in another part of the house, resting up after doing his early morning milk route.  Her excited shrieking woke him up.  He ran to the living room to investigate and found me, forceps in hand, pulling bunches of cash out of the family piano.  His wife continued to shriek.  At this point he remembered that years earlier he had put the receipts from his milk route on top of the piano and retired to the bedroom to take his usual nap. When he awoke later that afternoon the money had disappeared.  Given the fact that most folks did not lock their doors in those days he assumed someone had come into the house and stolen  the money.  He called his supervisor at the dairy he drove his milk route for and was instructed to file a police report and then forget about the money.  The dairy's insurance carrier would cover the loss.

What actually had happened was that he had rolled up the money into a wad and placed a rubber band around it.  The bankroll was knocked inside the piano when someone, probably one of his children, opened the key cover without noticing the money.  Over the years the rubber band rotted away allowing the loosened money to migrate throughout the playing mechanism of the piano until it obstructed the keys.  The honest milkman returned the cash to his employer who ethically returned it to the insurance company who had paid out the claim years earlier.  To my surprise, about a month later, I received a check from the insurance carrier for $200.00.  About $1400.00 in 2017 money.  The notation on the memo portion of the check read FINDER FEE. My wife and I took a nice vacation thanks to the honest milkman.

THE VICIOUS DOG

About forty years ago I was tuning a piano to the accompaniment of a constantly barking dog. The lady I was tuning for kept apologizing for the racket. I told her that I often tune pianos in school cafeterias with the students rioting, or, in piano stores with customers trying out nearby instruments. Noise does not bother me, I simply ignore it and concentrate on my work. I told her I felt sorry for her living next door to such constant racket. She explained that the barking came from a German Shepard that belonged to her next door neighbors. They left the dog chained outside, day and night, on a short four foot chain, very thick, and, padlocked around the dog's neck. The dog kept quiet when it's owners were at home, because, if he did not, they would beat him with a broom handle, or, burn him with lit cigarettes. People who lived on the block feared the couple and considered them crazy, so, none dared call the authorities about the poor dog's plight. A few of the men had once tried to turn the dog loose, but, were stopped by the padlock on the chain around the dogs neck. Also, the dog was extremely vicious due to his torments and tried to bite anyone who came near. There seemed to be nothing anyone could do for the helpless animal. I determined that I would rescue the dog. I would steal him.

I telephoned my wife Lois and had her drive to the dog's address to take photos of his surroundings while I finished my days work. We had a Polaroid Land Camera which developed and printed its own photos. It was normally used to photograph pianos for insurance appraisals. This day it would do reconnaissance duty. That evening we went over the photos and laid our plans.

The next day, when we were sure the dog's owners were away at work, we backed our piano moving van into their driveway parking as close to the dog as we could. We let down the piano ramp and opened one of the rear doors. We laid a trail of hot dog pieces from the dog's area, up the ramp, and, into the van. The entire time the dog was barking viciously, snarling, and bearing his ample teeth. The plan was that I would bait the dog with the hot dog pieces, he would start munching them down, and he would follow their trail up the ramp and into the van. At some point, I would cut the chain with a large pair of bolt cutters I had brought from our shop. Once the dog was in the van my wife would slam the door and we would drive off. The dog wanted no part of our plan. He did not want to eat the hot dogs. He wanted to eat me, or, at least bite off an arm or leg! I now worried that the heavy chain was not thick enough to hold him back!

My baby daughter Jane was with us, sleeping in the cab of the truck. Somehow, my wife got the inspired idea to offer the dog a jar of baby food. I removed the cap and used the bolt cutters to shove the jar within the dog's reach. He sniffed it suspiciously and stuck is tongue into the jar for a taste. If dogs can smile, he did!
Lois quickly opened another jar and soon had the dog eating out of her hand. She lured him up the ramp as I cut the chain. Once the dog was inside the van Lois set the jar of baby food down and jumped off the back of the truck as I slammed the door shut. We drove off with the dog raising all hell back in the cargo area! We had counted on the fact that no one would be home to witness our caper at that time of the day, and, it turned out, we counted right. The next time I tuned the piano for the lady who told me about the dog originally she said, "You won't have to put up with that barking dog this time. Somehow, he broke that heavy chain and ran away." I tried my best to look surprised.

My wife and I lived on a large farm out in the country. When we got home we just opened the truck door and let the dog make a beeline for the woods. We did not see him for a few days, but, could see that he was consuming the food and water we left out for him. Then, one morning, we found him sleeping on the back porch. He was now calm and friendly and I finally got the opportunity to cut the remainder of the chain from his neck. He played the part of a yard dog for the next few days until he wormed his way into the house and made his bed beneath Jane's crib. He appointed himself her body guard, and, even kept grandparents at bay until Lois or I ordered him to stand down. We never took him to a vet or got him a license, because, we feared his former owners might be looking for him. We never knew his actual name, so, we just called him Shep. He was my daughter's playmate until she was almost three years old. One autumn day he romped off into the woods, as was his custom, and never returned. We searched in vain. Jane vaguely remembers Shep. I'll never forget him.

DARK SHADOWS

When I arrived at a typical suburban rancher tract home, I was surprised to find two closed caskets in the same living room where I was to tune the piano. Surprised, but, not alarmed in particular, because, when I was growing up, funeral viewings in the home were typical. In fact, my own father was laid out in our front parlor. Thus, I assumed the piano I was tuning was to provide music for a double funeral viewing. Perhaps a car accident that had claimed two victims. Eventually the gentleman who owned the piano explained to me that he and his wife were vampires and slept in the coffins during the day. That's was the reason he hired me, because, my phone book ad stated that I offered both day and evening appointments. Vampires, he went on to explain, cannot see daylight or they disintegrate. He could not have opened the door for me to enter his home in the daylight. I never got to meet the misses, and I did not believe he was actually a vampire, but, I'm quite certain he believed he was. Therefore, as I worked, I watched my back, and more importantly, my neck. I finished my work and left the house without event. The next time he called me to tune his piano I told him I was all booked up. For fun,I referred him to one of my competitors. I was a big fan of the Gothic soap opera DARK SHADOWS that ran on the ABC television network from 1966 to 1971. Johnathan Frid played the vampire Barnabas Collins. The "vampire" guy I met was not as well dressed, nor, as well spoken.

RIGHT PLACE, RIGHT TIME

It was a sunny summer afternoon in 1977.  Nancy had just graduated high school and was looking forward to college as she sun bathed on the front porch of her home.  Before leaving for work, her mother told her to wait for me to arrive to tune their piano. Not an exciting afternoon for Nancy, but, at least she could work on her tan while keeping an eye out for me. As I turned onto the street I noticed a car about a hundred feet ahead of me pull up to the curb. The middle aged driver tooted his horn at Nancy.  Since she recognised the driver, one of her former high school teachers, she sprinted across the lawn to say hello. It was then I noticed the driver swing open the passenger side door and demand Nancy get into the front seat.  His demand was backed up by a hand gun squarely pointed at Nancy's pretty blond head. Visibly shaken, she reluctantly got into the car and the teacher slowly drove away form the house, still holding his gun on Nancy.  I decided to follow his car at a respectable distance behind. I was stunned and, of course, had no plan in particular.

 It was fortunate that I had one of the early mobile telephones which allowed me to call 911 from my car.  I was connected with a police dispatcher and as I continued to report the position of the abductor's vehicle to her, she relayed the information to the officers on the street.  Eventually the abductor stopped for a red traffic signal and, as if they appeared out of thin air, officers with weapons drawn surrounded the car.  The wayward teacher surrendered without a struggle.  Nancy, still clad in just her swim suit, was handed a blanket and was whisked off to police headquarters to give her account of the incident.

In the end it turned out that, despite the fact that the teacher was a husband and father, he had developed a Lolita type obsession focused on Nancy.  His intention was to abduct Nancy and for the two of them to go away together and live happily ever after.  He was banned from ever teaching again and sent off to a mental institution.  Nancy went off to college and as far as I know was largely unaffected by the unfortunate event. She recently became a grandmother.  Since the incident happened before the days of the Internet and social media it was reported by the local newspaper and a short blip on the evening news.  I was briefly referred to as a hero, but, I never saw things that way.  I was never at any personal risk and was not the one who rescued Nancy.  I was simply at the right place at the right time.

NOTE:  Nancy was not the abducted girls actual name and the photo that accompanies this article is a professional model.

"THE DUKE"

I REGRET THAT I did not meet Duke Ellington until a few years before his death in 1974. On behalf of a wealthy client, I hired Duke, and his entire orchestra, to play at a dinner party for just six people! (For that story see my blog: MONEY IS NOT WEALTH) I had tuned the piano for that party. After that, he occasionally called upon me when he was in the Philadelphia area. Although the relationship was short, it resulted in the largest tip I have ever received, and, the greatest compliment of my career.

DUKE ELLINGTONS'S WORK spanned half a century. He was one of the most influential artists and composers in the history of recorded music, earning more than a dozen Grammy Awards. He was also nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, received The Presidential Medal Of Freedom, made the cover of TIME magazine, and was the first African-American to appear by himself on a circulating U.S. coin. His Steinway piano now resides at The Smithsonian. His prolific compositions include popular, classical, and sacred music, as well as, film scores and show tunes. He is best remembered as one of the greatest figures in the history of jazz music. Largely due to his efforts, jazz was elevated from the honky tonks to an artistic level on par with classical music. There is hardly a serious singer or musician who has not recorded something The Duke wrote. He lived until age 75, long enough to see himself regarded as a musical icon.

DUKE ELLINGTON RESPECTED his musicians and treated them generously. From my observation, Duke's orchestra was a break even proposition. The bulk of his income came from music royalties. For instance, in the pre civil rights era, The Duke charted private railroad sleeping and dining cars to transport his musicians so they would not have to deal with segregated hotels. Once, after doing a $100.00 concert tuning, he paid me with ten one hundred bills. The $900.00 tip is the largest I have ever received and amounted to about two thousand dollars in todays money.

DUKE ELLINGTON PLAYED for many years at Harlem's famous Cotton Club, which ironically, was frequented by primarily white patrons. Perhaps this is why many people assume He grew up as a poor kid on the streets of New York. Actually he was the product of a middle class upbringing in Washington D.C. His parents saw to it that he was both well educated and well mannered. He received piano lessons and was taught by his mother to live elegantly. His childhood friends took note of his dignity, grace, and dapper dress. Feeling he had the bearing of a young nobleman they nicnamed Edward Kennedy Ellington "The Duke." I experienced his royal manners firsthand after tuning the piano for one of his college concerts. The rented grand piano arrived early in the afternoon. Later I showed up and tuned thru it twice in preparation for the evening concert. When I presented my bill to the student who was acting as stage manager, he insisted I stay until The Duke arrived and approved my work. I agreed to wait, but, I would be charging heavy duty coin for every half hour. Several hours later The Duke arrived and the hapless stage manager requested that he try the piano immediately, because, he had kept me waiting on the clock. The Duke glanced over at me and politely informed the student that he had no need to try the piano. "If John tuned it, I'm sure it's fine." I consider that my greatest compliment.

COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP

One summer afternoon, about thirty five years ago, I was tuning a piano in a middle class suburban home, when a gruff voice, aided by a bull horn, barked, "WE HAVE THE HOUSE SURROUNDED, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" I glanced out the window to see dozens of police cars forming a barricade around the house, with an army of police officers and federal agents brandishing enough weapons to arm a small third world country. I immediately dove under the grand piano. My first thought was that the lawmen had the wrong address. I had tuned the piano many times for this pleasant couple in their early sixties, and, their bachelor son in his forties, who still lived at home. Imagine my surprise when this seemingly normal family started pulling weapons of their own out of closets and from behind draperies! After peering out many windows, and accessing the situation, "Ma Barker" and her gang decided that they were out numbered and the best course of action was to give themselves up. The most chilling thing about the situation, besides my life flashing before my eyes, was how calm the family was and how quickly they reacted to the situation. This was like a normal day at the office to them. Under the piano, I was shaking like a frightened child. The son directed me to follow them out the front door with my hands up as the father waived a few sheets of white paper towel out the front door and shouted, "We are coming out. We are unarmed." We paraded down the front walk hands high in the air, dad still holding the paper towels in one hand. It was dad, mom, me, and the son bringing up the rear. It seemed like a hundred guns were trained on us. I remember thinking, if a car backfires a block away, we'll be cut down in a rain of bullets! Apparently the police knew this family and expected only three people to come out of the house, because, I could hear voices saying things like, "who's the fat guy?" The fat guy, of course, was me. I was actually relived when, at some point, a bunch of cops grabbed me, threw me onto a car hood, and handcuffed me in one smooth motion. All I could think of was that I was still alive. After giving a good account of myself I was released and escorted back into the house to retrieve my tools. It was on this walk that the officers told me this family were major drug distributors who supplied the local street dealers in the area. I had no idea. I thought I might be called upon at some point to testify at a trial or something, not that I knew anything, but, nothing ever happened. Aside form the arrest, nothing ever showed up in the news about a trial or the family. I guess they cut some kind of deal. Of course the news media at the scene tried to interview me, but, I just waived them off with a terse "no comment." I always wanted to say that.

WORLD TRADE CENTER TWIN TOWERS 911 MEMORIES

Save for some professional musicians and institutional clients, no one takes a day off from work to have their piano tuned and serviced.  If you are going to be a successful full time piano technician you must reconcile yourself to working evenings and Saturdays. Due to my work hours I got into the habit of going to bed in the wee hours of the morning and rolling out of bed in the early afternoon.  On a day when I arise early I quip, " I was up at the crack of noon."  On September 11th, 2001 I was putting on my morning coffee and checking phone messages as my TV in the living room was showing what I thought was a Science Fiction movie that  showed airplanes crashing into the World Trade Center Twin Towers.  From the kitchen I could not hear the audio, only view the screen images.  My attention was caught by the same scene of the airplanes crashing into the towers repeating over and over.  The film must have gotten stuck I reasoned. Someone at the station must be asleep at the switch.  As I walked into the living room to change the channel I finally heard the audio portion of the broadcast.  Horrified by the news, it triggered memories of a short book E.B.White had written in 1949 called HERE IS NEW YORK. Ironically, he predicted such an incident 52 years in advance! I've always been a literature buff, but, I still find it strange that my mind went first to E.B.White.

 My grandmother Christine sang with the London Opera Company and the singers continued to perform during the devastating "London Blitz" of World War Two with the intention that it was important to keep up the morale of the public.  I asked her once how she and her family survived the destruction and carnage.  "Well, we just took it as another day," was her reply.  Perhaps the Philadelphia area was too far removed from New York to feel the full impact, or, perhaps my clients had my grandmother's mind set and simply took it as another day, but, not one of my three appointments that day canceled. That being so, I worked.

My second client of the evening was obviously shaken up because she worked in World Trade Center South Tower Two.  Many people in the Philadelphia area commute to New York for work by train or bus to take advantage of the substantially higher pay rate for most jobs. She had taken the day off to have new carpet installed in her home.  All of her co workers died in the terrorist attack.  To this day she still sees a therapist as she suffers from a psychological condition known as "Survivors Guilt."

Several months after what has become known simply as "911" I was servicing a piano for a client who worked in a brokerage house in the North Tower One.  He told me his story of  how he became the lone survivor of about thirty workers at his office.  It seems for several years he had tried to quit smoking.  He tried all the methods and programs, but inevitability, he always went back to cigarettes.  This caused him to have to endure quite a lot of teasing and sarcasm at the hands of his coworkers.  He quit smoking again just a few days before the fatal attack.  He had a habit of coming to the office several hours before everyone else.  When the bulk of the staff showed up each morning at their normal work time he would leave to "take a walk and get a bite of breakfast."  This, of course, was his cover for ducking out to grab a smoke.  He always walked a few blocks away so no one would discover his secret.  As he was lighting up his second cigarette he looked up and saw the airplane crash into Tower One.  He suffers no "Survivors Guilt" and never tried to quit smoking again.  As he said to me, "Who says smoking is bad for your health?"

On the morning of 911 my son-in-law Rick was in San Diego, California aboard an airplane poised to take off and return him, and two business colleagues, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Suddenly all the passengers were ushered off of the plane with little explanation other than that there was an "air traffic problem."  Television monitors in the terminal were already showing the Towers crashing down.  Most of the travelers stayed glued to the TV screens, but, Rick and his team moved quickly to get their hotel rooms and rental car back.  After watching all the news coverage, and assessing the situation, Rick's trio made the decision to drive cross country to Philadelphia. The three drove in shifts, one driving, one keeping the driver awake, and one sleeping.  The group traveled 2800 miles in 45 hours.  Their average speed was 62 miles per hour. This was not taking your Grandma for a Sunday drive.

 An early writing teacher gave me a piece of advice I have always followed, "Write about what you know." Since I have no direct experience with the tragic events at Shanksville, Pennsylvania, the Pentagon attack, or, the devastating health issues that befell so many of the First Responders, I choose not to address them.  If the reader is unfamiliar with these other 911 happenings I hope you will look into them.  My omission of them in no way minimizes the importance of those horrific tragedies.

One factor about 911 that took me by surprise was that a large number of the victims left little to no life insurance to provide for their families.  The majority of these victims worked in the finical planning industry. Logic would dictate that, before you invested in your first stock or bond, you would make sure your loved ones were provided for.  In my day life insurance was the first thing a couple purchased, just after the honeymoon. Harry Gross, a noted Philadelphia C.P.A. and investment counselor was fond of saying, "He who has no life insurance doesn't die...he absconds."

Over time, most important holidays such as Memorial Day, Veterans Day, Pearl Harbor Day, Forth Of July, etc. degenerate into days for retailers to have sales, car dealers to trumpet "blow out savings," and the general public to have family parties.  This past 911 several retailers advertised 911 sales with tacky sayings like "towering savings."  Every 911 I watch news videos of that fatal day including the unedited versions of people jumping out of the tower windows and splattering on the sidewalks. Why the news networks don't air these every year is beyond my understanding.  After all, most of us still have the tee shirts and banners with the slogan, "WE WILL NEVER FORGET."