Mr. Hair delivered dairy products to our house when we lived at the Millstone.  I suppose he had a first name just like Virgil, the man who sold us gas and took care of our cars, had a last name.  Those names, Mr. Hair's first and Virgil's last, haven't faded in my memory.  I don't think they were ever there.  The main thing I remember about Mr. Hair was that he always seemed to be smiling.  Other memories come back.  He wore a uniform, grey and blue, I think.  He drove a strange truck that didn't have doors on either side.  He stood up when he drove and he probably didn't wear a seatbelt.  Knowing the fifties, there probably weren't even seatbelts installed.  He carried a large basket made of galvanized steel.  On either end of the handle there were round receptacles where he put cottage cheese and sour cream.  He delivered milk in bottles with a bubble at the next so that the cream could settle out.  He provided a little red ladle, not to spoon out the cream, but to plug the neck of the jar so that the cream could be poured off.
    He represents to me an earlier phase in American history.  Imagine a delivery person like him today.  He walked right into our kitchen, he may not have even bothered to ring the doorbell, after we were familiar with him.  He opened up our refrigerator without being invited.  Today, that would be about as invasive as a person could be.  Then it was friendly and communal.  He was in his fifties when he delivered milk and butter and eggs to our house in 1960, so I imagine him having been a soldier in WWII.  He was one of the men who may have waded ashore at Iwo Jima or Guadalcanal.  He saw friends die.  He killed Japs.  Then he came home, put on a different uniform, and started delivering milk to people's houses.  I don't know how a person does a transition like that.  My closest approximation is leaving school and entering the work force.  People like him and Mr. Silvernagle and Oscar Patzer don't seem to be real to me.  I know it's a schitzy thought, but sometimes they seem to bit players, walk-ons, who were hired to populate the background of my childhood life.  But he was real.  He noticed a pretty girl one day and worked up the courage to talk to her.  He had to act disinterested.  She responded to him.  He fell in love with her, bedded her, married her, and went home to her at night.  Sometimes he walked around his house in his underpants.  And he delivered milk to our house too.