Milkmen: Special Delivery

An occasional raindrop splashes on the raised hood of Jim Fiore’s milk truck, which has sputtered to a halt less than 30 feet from the loading dock at the Alta Dena Certified Dairy.

It’s almost 5 a.m., and Fiore should be into his predawn route, delivering milk that sleepy children will use to drown their breakfast cereal. But on this chilly morning, school bells will ring well before the milkman can roust a mechanic to diagnose and repair what turns out to be a cracked distributor cap.

“We’re going to lose some money today,” says Fiore, a philosophy major and teacher turned milkman. “People want their milk early, and they don’t like to pay when you’re late.”

When the road-weary 1966 Ford truck finally pulls away from the dock, Fiore draws curious stares from motorists as he wends his way along a 151-customer route that stretches from flatland bungalows to mansions perched atop the Tustin hills.

It’s possible that some of the gawkers have never seen a milk truck. Or maybe they figure that milkmen are an anachronism in an era when consumers are clamoring for fast food and convenience stores.

Even Fiore, 49, who’s watched from his early-morning perch as many competing dairies mothballed their home-delivery fleets, harbors doubts: “Sometimes I think that we’re the last of a dying breed.”

During their heyday in the 1950s, milkmen were a common sight in Southern California. The Pasadena area alone had 16 dairies that offered home delivery, according to Alta Dena Certified Dairy co-founder Harold Stuvie, who bought his first milk truck in 1945.

Now, only about 150 milkmen remain in the Southland, most of them delivering for Alta Dena.

But milkmen assert that they won’t disappear as long as harried consumers in well-to-do neighborhoods are willing to pay the added price for the convenience of having fresh products delivered to their door.

Milkmen--dairies say that only a handful nationwide are women--who are willing to work hard can make a decent living. Drivers generally earn from $30,000 to $50,000 a year, and recent retirees have augmented their income by selling their routes for $50,000 or more.

Those kinds of figures are attracting a few entrepreneurs who envision a milk route as a springboard into the business world. And, some milkmen view their routes as a way to accumulate cash needed to start up less physical careers.

But the road isn’t easy for these small businessmen who, from their offices on wheels, must also act as chairman, salesman, deliveryman and accountant. “The profit margins just aren’t what they used to be,” acknowledged one longtime driver who’s struggling to make ends meet.

When Fiore joined Alta Dena nearly 20 years ago, milkmen were company employees who drew salaries and benefits. Now, the Dana Point resident is an independent contractor and his income is driven by how many half-gallon containers of 2% milk he can hustle to doorsteps.

“I tell new drivers that they’re not going to be able to sit in a coffee shop and eat three-egg omelets every morning,” said Kirk Hofstetter, a third-generation manager at Curly’s Dairy in Salem, Ore. “To succeed in this business you’ve got to get out there and work, work, work.”

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It’s hard to understand how “milk run” came to describe an unexpectedly easy task.

Bumps, bruises, twists and sprains come with the territory, especially on a damp morning when the metal floor of Fiore’s aging truck is as slick as ice. Before pulling away from the loading dock, he must hustle dozens of crates--which can weigh 60 pounds each when fully loaded--into his truck’s refrigerated hold.

On the morning when his truck broke down, Fiore--wearing plastic bags inside his tennis shoes to keep his feet and socks dry--tried to recoup lost time by literally running through his route.

Not surprisingly, the job gets tougher as the milkman grows older.

“I preach to these guys that this is a 10-year business,” said Dave Weinstock, a dairy executive in Minneapolis who shivered at the thought of making deliveries during this winter’s record cold in the Midwest.

“Make your money, I tell them, then sell your business and get into something else. This is real good job, but it’s a young man’s business.”

Milkmen are battling the same economic forces that can savage any small business: Insurance premiums are sky-high and environmental regulations make it increasingly expensive to repair faulty refrigeration units.

Milkmen around the country charge anywhere from eight cents to 20 cents more per half-gallon for home delivery. But they say they’re getting squeezed as costs rise because customers balk at paying much more than what chains charge.

They grumble that they’re at a disadvantage because many dairies typically grant lower prices to big distributors that stock major supermarket and convenience store shelves.

And then there’s the perennial small business problem of deadbeats--customers who fail to pay promptly each month.

“What can you do” asks Fiore. “Take them to court?”

A milkman in Orange County made news last week when he and a co-worker were arrested and charged with beating a man they thought was stealing milk from their truck. Milkmen say that early-morning theft is common in some neighborhoods.

“I’ve been in this business for 35 years and I’ve seen it all,” said Ralph Navarrez, 60, who manages Downey-based Rockview Dairy’s fleet, which has dwindled to 28 routes from more than 100 during the 1960s. “Usually, the milk gets stolen on Friday and Saturday nights, when people are getting home late from the bars.

“These are the same people who will steal your newspaper or the kid’s bike or a lawn mower if it’s left out,” Navarrez said. “It’s really annoying.”

In some tougher neighborhoods, criminals sometimes hold up milkmen who travel alone, making it difficult to get delivery in those areas. “It’s been getting worse,” he said. “About four years ago, someone worked one of our drivers over with a shotgun and left him for dead.”

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The key to a milkman’s success--as Fiore’s recent breakdown proves--is his truck. But few drivers can afford to pay $50,000 or more for a new refrigerated vehicle. It’s not unusual to see milkmen who are younger than the vehicles they’re driving.

Used trucks are almost as expensive. Because they carry tremendous loads, brakes and tires are constantly wearing out. Fiore has replaced his aging Ford’s engine three times and rebuilt both the transmission and the rear end. Now he’s saving up to hire a body man who will iron out three decades of bumps and scrapes.

Craig Jones, a salesman with Atlas Truck Bodies based in Amory, Miss., one of the few companies that still sells milk trucks, reports that “if I had them in stock, I could sell 20 used trucks today, easy.”

Fermin Vasquez, 67, whom the drivers pay to round up new customers in Orange County, fears that escalating costs are making milk routes too pricey for many newcomers: “If this business goes away, it will be because young men can’t afford to buy trucks, not because they can’t find customers.”

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Milkmen weren’t always viewed as an endangered species.

In the 1940s, Southern Californians drank farm-fresh milk that was delivered daily to their ice boxes in open trucks, recalled Alta Dena co-founder Stuvie, 78. Back then, he said, it wasn’t unusual for trusting customers to leave their doors unlocked so milkmen could tiptoe in with their daily delivery.

Milkmen from dozens of dairies--with names such as Swan, Supreme, Excelsior and Crown City--blanketed Southern California well into the 1960s, trailing puddles of water from blocks of ice that kept the farm-fresh produce cold.

“When I started in the business in 1959, there were 5,000 routes in Southern California,” said Navarrez. “The giants like Adohr Farms and Carnation used to have hundreds of routes.”

“But then refrigeration moved in,” Stuvie recalled, “and people could buy milk at the store and keep it at home.” As California’s population boomed, small dairies went out of business or were consolidated into conglomerates.

When Stuvie began to deliver milk in the mid-1940s, milkmen followed the same route every day. Now, as refrigeration requires less frequent delivery, milkmen run as many as six routes each week.

About 30% of U.S. homes paid for home delivery during the early 1960s, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, but by the late 1980s, that figure had tumbled to less than 2%.

Nationwide, only about 100 dairies still offer home delivery of milk and other products, with the average dairy incorporating about 20 routes.

City of Industry-based Alta Dena is believed to have the largest remaining home delivery system, with 100 drivers who serve about 30,000 customers in Los Angeles, Orange and San Diego counties.

When Fiore first drove his milk route, Alta Dena’s driver roster mirrored the region’s largely white population. But in recent years, more minorities have joined the fleet. Said Fiore: “It’s like the United Nations over there.”

More than a third of Alta Dena’s Orange County milk routes are run by immigrants from the western Indian coastal state of Gujarat who share the Patel surname, but are not related.

The Patels also are a growing force in the nation’s hotel and motel industry, controlling 12,500 properties with a market value of more than $26 billion.

Nimesh Patel, 20, is typical of the Patels: He’s a second-generation milkman who broke into the business three years ago by helping to deliver milk on a route run by his father, Pat.

Marty Patel, a 24-year-old Anaheim Hills resident, has been delivering milk in the Coto de Caza area for six years. He views his job as more than a source of income: “I’m going to keep doing it until I can make enough money to buy some other business.”

Fiore, who stumbled into the milkman gig 17 years ago, also views the job as a temporary, albeit long-running, affair.

He worked his way through chiropractic school and, two years ago, opened Straight Chiropracty in Santa Ana. But until his practice grows more lucrative, he will continue to also move in the milkman’s topsy-turvy world.

“If you don’t mind the hours--and that’s the key--you can be your own boss,” Fiore said. “Other than the fact that you’re up at 3 a.m., it’s a pretty good life.”

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Although dairy operators don’t expect a massive resurgence in demand for home delivery, executives say that the milkman’s trade is still relevant.

“Customers want services that will save them time, and that’s what we do,” said Richard Averill, branch manager of Alta Dena’s distribution facility in Tustin.

“We do very well at homes where so many people are heading off to work at 7 a.m. and don’t have time to shop.”

Longtime customers say they can’t envision life without their milkmen.

“He spoils us,” said San Juan Capistrano resident Pam Shearer, who’s been buying Alta Dena milk for nearly seven years from Dave Lahodny. “He brings up the newspaper in the morning, he writes us little notes, he’s just the sweetest man.”

Shearer has been cutting back on other expenses, but she asserts that it’s well worth the added cost--several cents per half gallon--to keep Lahodny. “He really saves us lots of money because every time I’d go to the store for milk I’d end up spending so much more on bread, vegetables or something else.”

But some dairy operators contend that quality service alone is not enough to guarantee continued growth and profitability. In a bid to make their services more relevant, they’re turning milk trucks into mobile grocery stores that offer an array of products.

Some of Alta Dena’s drivers offer cheesecake, bologna and bread. Curly’s Dairy in Oregon stuffs its trucks with Christmas toys, citrus punch, frozen pizzas and chip dip. Oberweis Dairy in Illinois still delivers milk in old-fashioned glass bottles--but it also sold nearly 1,000 spiral-cut hams during the holiday season and it offers Starbucks coffee year-round.

The nontraditional approach seems to be working. Curly’s, which serves small towns, reports that its customer count has grown by 2,000 to 7,000 in 10 years. Oberweis, which delivers in the outskirts of Chicago, has grown by 3,500 customers to 20,000 in six years.

Hofstetter, whose grandfather founded Curly’s, tied the expanded product line to the realization that “we’re in the profit business, not necessarily the dairy business. . . . If you’re going to go up and ring that customer’s doorbell, you might as well find out what else he or she wants or needs.”

Dairies also aren’t shy about leveraging the vast reservoir of goodwill that milkmen accrued during a simpler era. Oberweis recently began airing television commercials that are top-heavy with memories about the milkman’s halcyon days.

“Even yuppie 30-somethings who aren’t old enough to remember milkmen have heard about them,” said marketing executive Carole Arliskas. “And they want a part of that bit of American nostalgia.”