A Milky Way of Life : Since ‘47, Deliveryman Has Brought Milk and Kindness to Customers
A small pile of wrenches and bolts rattles on the dashboard. A spare clutch plate and extra brake pad are stashed behind the driver’s seat.
But the most important piece of equipment in milkman Bill Ogburn’s clunky, 25-year-old truck is stored atop crates of low-fat milk when he makes his rounds at the edge of downtown Los Angeles.
It’s a box of cookies.
“These are for the dogs,” Ogburn said. “I give each of them one every time I see them. I don’t have any bad dogs on my route. They know they’re going to get a cookie.”
Ogburn, 64, has been delivering milk--and cookies--to Boyle Heights since 1947. He hopes to retire after January when he turns 65. As he bumps along the neighborhood’s hilly streets in his aging white truck, he realizes he is a dinosaur.
He sells about 600 gallons of milk a week. Customers who once ordered four or five gallons of milk at a time for their growing families now take only a half-gallon.
“My son wanted to get into the business, but I told him, ‘No way,’ ” Ogburn said. “It’s a dead business. He decided against it--he’s an engineer with one of the aerospace companies instead.”
It was different in the old days.
More than 10,000 milkmen cruised the streets of Los Angeles and surrounding communities when he climbed into his first ice-cooled delivery truck, Ogburn said.
To young families just starting out after World War II, the milkman was just as important as the mailman.
There were no supermarkets then. Many of the new neighborhoods that were springing up in the Los Angeles basin lacked the convenience of a local grocery store. And in the older neighborhoods, some families still used wooden ice boxes, where milk and butter could not be stored for long.
Los Angeles dairy officials say there are fewer than 200 local milkmen still making their rounds today.
The remaining milkmen are independent contractors who buy their own merchandise and provide their own trucks, gasoline and insurance.
Ogburn pays Adohr Farms $110 a month for office space and a place to park his truck where its electric refrigeration system can be recharged at night, said Cecelia Martin, retail delivery coordinator for the dairy. Home-delivered milk is generally priced about 40% more than store-bought milk, she said.
Prospects are slim for finding a replacement for Ogburn willing to work a 12-hour day that starts at 3:30 a.m. Particularly when an increasingly dangerous, 30-mile route is involved.
On two occasions, Ogburn said he has awakened homeowners and helped extinguish house fires he has spotted while driving on neighborhood streets. Once, he discovered the body of a customer who had been murdered in her kitchen.
Ogburn has been robbed twice. Attackers broke his wrist last June and smashed his teeth and glasses three months ago. He no longer carries cash when making deliveries.
“I don’t think I can take another beating,” he said.
Yet to many of Ogburn’s 300 customers, he is like a trusted member of the family.
He regularly extends credit to those who need it. About 20 residents have given Ogburn their house keys so he can deliver their cheese, butter and milk straight to their refrigerators.
Many rely on him for groceries as well. He delivers ham, bread, flour and other items upon request.
“He’s like my adopted son,” said Dora LaChance, a Cornwell Street resident who for 42 years has purchased milk from Ogburn for her family and herself.
“He’ll make special trips for me. I’m pushing 80 and I can’t get out as well as I used to. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
LaChance soon may find out after Ogburn’s scheduled retirement next year.
“I haven’t had a vacation in so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like. I haven’t taken off in 20 years,” Ogburn said. Some of his customers, he said, still owe him money, but he knows some of them will never pay. “If they tell me the truth, I won’t cut them off,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of great folks.”
On a recent morning, Ogburn drove his rusting Divco milk truck past derelicts lying on sidewalks and police making arrests near the crime-plagued Aliso Village housing project. He stopped for a lengthy front-porch chat with a customer on Boyle Avenue.
“I’ve served that lady for over 30 years,” he explained when he stepped back into his truck. “I’ve watched her children grow. She just was telling me that her daughter was mugged right in the front yard on Mother’s Day.”
He released the huge lever that controls the truck’s parking brake and pumped the gas pedal to bring its wheezing motor to life. Before pulling away from the curb, Ogburn checked his cookie supply. There were plenty left.
“I love dogs,” he said.
