I was a door-to-door milkman in Calgary for a short while back in the early -’90s, and not once did a smokin’ hot woman meet me at the door in a silk negligee. Not once was I ever invited in for coffee by some buxom seductress.
The closest I came was when a lady answered the door in her bathrobe and a mouth full of toothpaste.
It was a lousy job. Low pay, cold, dark mornings, and I was new to the city and kept getting lost because my area had streets called Silver Springs Road, Silver Springs Way, Silver Springs Blvd, Silver Ridge, Silver Mead and a whole bunch of other Silvers.
One of my milk customers was Doug Risebrough, ex-feisty 1970s and early-’80s Hab, and during the time he and his wife and kids were drinking my milk, was coaching the Calgary Flames.
I never met Risebrough when I delivered the milk, but his wife was around. And they left me a tip at Christmas.
They lived in a nice house in suburbia in northwest Calgary (above all the streets named Silver), with a view of downtown in the distance and the Olympic ski jump off the other way.
I remember back in 1974 when the Habs played an exhibition game against some team at the Civic Centre in Ottawa (I was there), and one of the local newspapers did a story about Montreal’s hot new rookie, Risebrough, who was sure to make the team.
Risebrough made the team of course, and went on to play eight seasons with the Habs where he was a solid, gritty, checking forward and an important cog in the late ’70s machine that captured four straight Stanley Cups.
From Montreal he would move on to Calgary and played just over four seasons before joining the coaching staff there.
On those early mornings when I was on his street making my milk rounds, I wonder if he sometimes looked out his window and thought, “Man, is that a lousy milkman.”