To Be a Teacher: An Autobiography
Of
Russell J. Armstead

1

GENESIS

PART ONE—IN THE BEGINNING

Michigan, it has been said, is shaped like a hand or mitten. If one were to place the left hand palm down, it would resemble the lower part of that State. The peninsula that looks like a thumb projects into Lake Huron. The northern part of that thumb contains Huron County. The county seat for the county is Bad Axe and that is where I was born.

Bad Axe got its name, according to legend, as a place marking the crossing of two trails. In frontier days, this part of Michigan was heavily forested and sprinkled with low swampy bogs. Marked trails were important for safe passage. At a point where the east-west trail crossed the north-south route an axe was buried in a tree trunk. Since the axe had a broken handle, it was referred to as The Bad Axe, hence the name, the place marked by the broken axe.

In October of 1935 I made my appearance. My parents were young; Mother was only 18 and Dad was 23, but they were determined to make a life for themselves and me. Unfortunately, because of a difficult birth, I was destined to be an only child. They named me Russell James Armstead, Jr. Dad began calling me his buddy and that nick name stuck, I became Buddy or Bud until I entered college.

Dad worked for his brother driving a truck, first a freight truck and later beer and wine delivery vehicle. Mom was a typical housewife of that era tending to cooking, cleaning, and taking care of my dad and me.

When I was three we moved into our own house built by Dad, his brothers, and friends. It was a rather small house but what I remember most is the full basement. Mom would hang up clothes in the winter and the smell of drying laundry seemed particularly pleasant to me. But it was the weekend parties that took place in the cellar that I remember best. Several couples would come to the house on a Saturday night. They brought food and beer for fellowship and a live band would provide music for singing and dancing far into the early hours of the morning. I recall getting out of my bed and sitting at the top of the cellar stairs watching and listening to the happy activities until I fell asleep and the next morning I found myself in my own bed,

There were some events from this period that impacted me enough to remain. My friend and neighbor, Sonny Braden, and I were playing with tinker-toys one day. He put one of the longer pieces in his mouth and pretended it was a cigarette. I thought that was neat and attempted to take it away from him. He turned to run from me at the exact moment his mother opened the door to enter the play room. Bam! He ran into the door and drove the tinker-toy into the back of his mouth. He stood there crying, bleeding, and pointing at me as if it were my fault. I ran home, locked the front door and hid in my bedroom. The next day Mrs. Braden came to call and told my mother about her bad day and Sonny’s accident. She didn’t mention me at all. Praise God!

Another time Sonny and I were playing out by the street and we discovered a large rock. This was the basis of a short story I wrote. While I changed the names, the story is essentially accurate.

JESUS IS MY ROCK

The dump truck came rumbling down the street, its box filled to overflowing with debris from the new home construction site across Main Street. The driver, bored after following the same route for the last couple of days, decided to take a more scenic route to the river where the combination of rocks, soil, and vegetation would help strengthen the levee against the spring rains. As he sped down Maple Street, he failed to note the deep depression in the street as a result of a newly constructed house’s connection to the city sewer line. Bump! Bang! The whole truck buckled and jumped like a wild bronco. A rock the size of a softball and nearly as round flew off and landed on the lawn of the new house.

Billy and Bobby watched in wonder and excitement as the truck came down their street. The three year olds were playing with toy trucks similar to the dump truck that attacked their street. Their squeals of joy at the first signs of the truck’s misfortune changed to sounds of fear as the loud noise, the rattle of machinery, and the flying missile landed near them.

Billy got up to run home but Bobby held on to him. They hugged briefly as if to assure each other that they were safe. Bobby said, Let’s see what this rock is like. C’mon, don’t be a sissy.

My mom said I shouldn’t play with strange things, Billy replied. B’sides, it may hurt me.

The boys slowly pushed their toy trucks down the sidewalk to the boulder. It appeared even bigger up close. Let’s pick it up and show it to my mother, Bobby declared. She likes surprises. Each took a turn to try to lift the rock, but it was too heavy for their little hands and the shape made it even more difficult to grasp.

We can roll it into the house, Billy suggested. It rolls easy. It is like a ball. Maybe it’s someone’s rock ball.

Mom will be happy to see this big rock. We gotta get it into the house. Let’s roll it up the stairs and into the house. Bobby offered. So the two young men pushed and tugged the rock down the side walk to the stairs to the front door. But, there the rolling ceased. There were three concrete steps that had to be negotiated in order to get the stone into the house.

Bobby, I’ll get a hold of it on the sides and lift, you put your hand under it and lift and we can get it up one step at a time. Billy grabbed the stone by the side and found he could lift it a little all by himself. Get your hands under it now. Lift Bobby, lift! Lift! It’s slipping! I can’t hold it! I’m going to let it go!

Don’t drop it yet, we almost got it to the first step. Hang on we’re almost there. Don’t! Don’t! Oh! Ouch! Why did you drop it? Bobby began to yell and scream. His mother rushed out and found both boys crying.

Billy took one look at Bobby’s mother’s face and ran for home. He went into his house, slammed the door, and headed for his bed room.

Bobby was horrified as he looked at his smashed finger through tear clouded eyes. The nail was detached from the middle finger of his right hand. The end looked like raw hamburger, but it didn’t seem to hurt so he stopped crying.

We got to take you to the doctor now, his mother said. She looked in dread at the empty driveway. I’ll see if Billy’s mother can take us to the doctor. I see her car is home. You sit still and hold that handkerchief over your finger until I get back.

Now the finger began hurting. It hurt a lot. Bobby renewed his crying, this time upping the volume several decibels Oh! Oh! I’m dying. Where’s my mommy, I want my mommy!

Bobby’ mother came back with the keys to the neighbor’s car, packed Bobby in the front seat next to her and headed for the hospital. As she drove, Bobby heard her pray, Dear Lord, please let this be less serious than it looks. Heal my baby’s finger. Lord, I pray you prevent infection or any other thing to enter Bobby’s body. I pray you would guide the doctor and give him wisdom in treating this injury. I love you Lord and trust in Your goodness and healing power. I put my son in your hands. Thank you, Jesus. Amen

Why are you praying, Mom. Will Jesus make me hurt less? Will my finger get better?

Yes, Son. Jesus is the rock upon which we can place all our concerns. He is our healer and helper. If we trust in Him, He will be faithful with us. He always hears our prayer.

That’s a nasty wound. It should heal nicely, but you’ll have a scar for the rest of your life, the doctor announced after bandaging the finger. You’re lucky it was only a finger, the bones in your hand are still small enough that it could have been a very serious accident.

Jesus was watching over me. Bobby added He is my rock that never hurts!

As the doctor suggested, I still have the scar and the memory of trying to do something beyond my ability has yet to limit me. There were other situations in these years, including the one with the little girl.

Our back yard abutted the back yard of the house on the next block and there was no fence or alley separating the two properties. A new family who moved into the house had a young girl, about my age. She wanted to play with me and came into our yard. I was seized with an irrational anger I had never felt before. I ran up to her and began hitting her and chasing her out of my yard. My mother came running as a result of the howling and crying and spotted my evilness. I was spanked and for the first time I heard those dreaded words, Wait ’til your father gets home, then you’ll really get it!

My mother told this of me, although I don’t recall the event. Our family, like most, got milk delivered each day from a horse-drawn van. One day I watched as the milk man took milk to our doorstep and as he left, I followed. While he was at the Braden’s house, I crawled into the back of the van and rode happily around our neighborhood. It was several blocks before the milk-man discovered me. He put me on the seat next to him and continued to complete his route. Meanwhile, my mother was frantic with fear and just before she involved the city police, the State Police, the FBI, the State Militia, and the Coast Guard, the milk man brought me home. Again that Wait ’til your father gets home business and a whopping.

I started Kindergarten just before my fifth birthday. I really enjoyed the experience. I remember it best as a time of play, a story, a nap, and a snack. I was big in sand box. My mother had given me a nice grey rug to nap on and we children would lie on the floor for a 45 minute rest. Some actually went to sleep. But I discovered my rug was perfect for sliding. So I would slide up to a fellow classmate and if he or she were asleep, I would try to wake them. This often got me in trouble with the teacher, who was, by the way, a good friend of my mother. Once, I slid my rug near the teacher’s desk. As I lay there, I noticed she had taken off her shoes and was wiggling her toes. The temptation was great. I watched in wonder and then stretched my hands to those moving targets and began to tickle them. She jumped up, probably thinking some rodent had attacked her. I was punished for this, too, and again I heard the now familiar phrase, Wait…!

Sonny Braden and I were best friends, that is until the day he took my truck while I was building a road through the classroom sand box. He just grabbed it out of my hands. A moment of absolute anger filled my little body. In my rage I yanked it out of his hand and threw it into his face, causing a bloody cut above his eyebrow. Yet, another punishment, but also a worry for my mother about this terrible anger I demonstrated

School ended and I was promoted to the first grade but it wasn’t to be in Bad Axe. My father purchased a hotel, bar, and coffee shop in the neighboring town of Ubly. We moved there in August of 1941 just before my sixth birthday.

PART TWO—MY NEW HOME

The hotel was a frightening experience for me. Both my mother and dad were busy getting the business started. I was introduced to a woman named Mrs. Rogers who was also the coffee shop cook. She led me into the kitchen that first night and asked what I wanted for dinner. Never had I needed to make such a choice. I didn’t know what to do. So I started crying and asking for my mother. Mrs. Rogers panicked and thought she had done something wrong. Soon Mom came and fixed me a meal and sat with me while I ate it. So the pattern of living in a hotel began, but there was more in store for me.

That night my dad took me up the stairs to the second story of the hotel where there were ten rooms. He led me to the last one and said, Son, this is your new room. In the morning come down stairs and have breakfast. Sleep as late as you want.

Where are you and Mom going to sleep? I asked, hoping he would tell me they would be next door.

We’ve a bed room next to the kitchen down stairs. You’ll be all right. There are other people sleeping up here and the hired girl has the room next to you. She will look in on you tonight.

Within hours I went from a family friendly home to an impersonal hotel, from a loving, protected environment to one of instability, albeit, free. I learned the boundaries of my new life. As the master’s son, I had powers over the hired help—for the most part. Mrs. Rogers became my in-fact mother and earned the nick name of Rocky. Various young girls who worked either as waitresses in the coffee shop or maids in the hotel made sure I got up for school, helped me with homework, bandaged my cuts, and reported my crimes to my folks—and yes, Wait ’til I tell you father was one of their responses.

To my boyhood friends I had the ideal life. Surrounded by ice cream, candy, pop, and all the choices for food, I appeared to them to be in heaven. But to me these were less desirable than the treats that were not easily available. The ice cream at O’Malley’s Drug Store was infinitely better than that offered in the coffee shop.

I thoroughly enjoyed the experiences of staying overnight with Jackie Petzold, my closest friend. In the evening the family sat down to dinner all together, normal food and a normal family. Best of all was breakfast during the school year. We would be told to get up, get dressed in our jammies and go to the breakfast table where Mrs. Petzold had prepared cold cereal or oatmeal. And, as we ate, Happy Hank, a radio personality with a children’s show, would tell us to get dressed. He said he was watching through the radio and would periodically urge the boys to hurry because the girls were catching up. Both Jackie and I dressed as fast as we could, often being told by Happy Hank that the girls had beat us. I savored those times of normalcy.

One of the atmospheres that remains in my head was the ever constant music from the juke boxes. There was one in the coffee shop and another in the bar. The coffee shop machine was set at a low volume and was turned off at nine o’clock when the shop was closed. However, the bar juke box played deep into the night, and loud enough so that my young ears had to learn to dampen the noise in order to get to sleep. It seemed that in whatever room I called mine, it was directly above the juke box. Yet, to this day there are any number of ‘40s and 50’ songs that remain locked in my brain. I think I knew the words to every popular song of the day.

Life in the hotel fell into a pattern until hunting season arrived. All the rooms were booked for the three weeks of pheasant season. Huron County was a hot bed of pheasants and pheasant hunters. Dad had a regular set of guests from Detroit who booked rooms every year. During the season I was kicked out of my room and forced to sleep on the couch in the living room near my folk’s bedroom. I often wondered why they didn’t set up my bedroom there in the first place.

I enjoyed the excitement of the hunting season. Dad stored the dead birds in our pre-cooler in the basement. This space was used to cool the beer kegs for draft and a number of cases of bottled beer. When the hunters returned, I would rush out to see if I could carry their game down to the pre-cooler. They always tipped me for the task and I looked forward for those rewards because I could use the cash to buy an ice cream cone at the drug store.

Early one day I learned that room 10 at the end of the hall had a secret door to an attic that opened out to the barn that was attached to the hotel. There were all kinds of old things to explore in the attic including books and magazines from earlier times as well as broken furniture. The door to the barn was bolted from the inside and I could open the door and climb on the rafters and pretend I was Tarzan or Superman or in the Army killing Germans. That is until my father discovered me playing high above his head. This time I didn’t have to Wait ’til… the response was instantaneous. Not only did my backside get blistered, but Dad decided to tear down the barn as it was dangerous as well as an unused nuisance.

I had varying relations with the girls that worked for us. One I fell in love with. I told my mother I was going to marry her, but she ran off and married another. Interestingly enough, that marriage failed and she ended up being my Aunt Connie as a result of marrying Dad’s brother, Archie. Another woman who affected my life was Kate Guitar. She was a great jokester as well as a kind and patient person. One summer morning when she wanted to finish her tasks in the rooms of the hotel she came upon me deep in sleep. She waited until all else was done, but couldn’t leave the task until my room was made up. She came into the room and loudly said, Bud, wake up! Wake up! There is a circus in town. Wake up or you’ll miss it!

I jumped out of bed and dressed in record time and ran down to greet my mother. Where is the circus? I asked, trembling in excitement.

What circus? she asked.

The one Kate told me about. I replied but beginning to suspect I had been fooled.

Oh, that Kate! I’ll bet she told you that to get you out of bed. So I missed the only circus that never came to Ubly, Michigan.

Another feature in the back yard of the hotel, near where the barn once stood, was a tall water tower that supplied the town with fresh water. It was about a million feet tall, or at least I thought; and had a ladder up one of the four legs supporting the huge balloon shaped container. At my bravest I was able to climb about a third of the way up before I looked down and realized I was close to death. I clung to the metal ladder with white knuckled hands and slowly, but extremely carefully, climbed down to terra firma. Other boys in Ubly climbed the water tower and bragged of it, I did neither.

A portion of the front of the hotel was rented out to barbers. The hair cuts and shaves were an advantage to both the bar and coffee shop as customers waiting for service would avail themselves of our food and drink. It also worked well for the barbers at times when they were idle; they would walk into either the bar of coffee shop and announce, Two chairs, no waiting! They even got customers that way at times.

Being a busy on-the-go-type kid, I hated to waste time getting a hair cut. So my mother would set it up with a barber to catch me as I was going by and cut my hair. I learned to note the look in the eye of the barber and would take alternate routes to avoid the dreaded haircut.

On the other hand, I found it worthwhile to sit in the barbershop and listen to the men gossip about farming, hunting, the war, or other people. I was fascinated with the process of shaving. Watching the barber pinch the nose as he slid the straight razor under a man’s nose, seeing him pull the skin tight on the cheeks, and shuddering as he put the razor to the throat, I decided I would rather be the barber than the one being shaved.

Guests in the hotel were often interesting people. A man who drove a gasoline delivery truck serving farmers in the area stayed for several years in the hotel before he married. Two or three times I got permission from my parents to go with him as he made his deliveries. It was great fun riding in the big truck and showing off to class mates and friends as we passed,

One year the high school’s English teacher became our boarder. She took a shine to me and introduced me to literature. With my mother’s permission, she came to my room nearly every night and read to me. One book, At the Back of the North Wind, took me to adventures I only dreamed of. She loaned me other books and bought me some age appropriate novels. I don’t even remember her name, but she really affected me.

As I became more comfortable in my new home, I was challenged by the new school.

PART THREE—A NEW SCHOOL

Mom dragged me to the Ubly Elementary School, officially known as Bingham #5 for the Township we lived in, in September of 1940. Compared to the school in Bad Axe it was very small and therefore more inviting. The building had been a church before the school district bought it and divided the upper floor into two rooms. On the side with the chancel were the kindergarten, first and second grades. The other half was a room for the third and fourth grades. One teacher taught the K, 1st, and 2nd, while another taught the 3rd and 4th grades.

I was introduced to Mrs. MacIntyre, a grandmotherly lady with a soft, gentle voice. She introduced me to the other first graders, This is Russell Armstead, your new classmate.

Immediately I responded, My friends call me Bud! And so I became Bud to all.

Okay, that’s nice, now here are your books and a pencil, write your name in the books. I couldn’t write! When asked to read from the text book, I couldn’t do that either. Didn’t you learn these things in kindergarten? She asked.

I looked longingly for the sand box, hopefully for my rug, and answered, What do I do to read? And so began my second year in kindergarten!

It should have been damaging to my psyche to have flunked kindergarten except that another boy who entered Bingham #5 that same year was tested in first grade and demoted to kindergarten. Jack Petzold became my best friend as a result of our sharing this ignoble honor.

Both Jackie and I picked up quickly those skills we were supposed to have learned the previous year and I suspect the added year of maturity benefited us both. School was easy and we had little difficulty keeping up with our classmates in any subject.

I missed the sand box, the naps, and the snacks that were my memory of school. We did, however, interrupt the morning with a milk break. Every day during the kindergarten, 1st and 2nd grades two boys would be designated to go into the school’s basement and bring up the two boxes of milk for distribution. The kindergarten kids got to choose first from the mixture of chocolate and white milk. This was great for the first year as I got chocolate every day, but in the higher grades I was afforded this luxury only on the days I brought the milk up from the basement—those who lugged the boxes could set aside their choices.

Recess was what we all waited for. In the spring and fall before it got too cold, we played either baseball on our playground or a game we called Hinny-Hi-Over. Two teams would be formed, usually by grade, first versus second or third versus fourth. The teams would take up positions on either side of the school building. One team would yell, Hinny-Hi-Over and toss a rubber ball over the building’s roof and it would fall on the opposite side. If the receiving team caught the ball before it hit the ground, they would sneak quietly around to the other side with the intent of hitting one of the other team with the ball. If they did so, that person had to join their team. When one team was decimated by this act, they won. The game depended a great deal on trust. If the receiving team failed to catch the ball they never pretended they did—at least to my knowledge. An uncaught ball allowed the receiving team to be the delivering team shouting Hinny-Hi-Over as they tossed the ball back.

We played baseball. Softball was not even a thought in our minds. We pitched underhand, wore gloves, and even let the girls play—mainly because there weren’t enough boys to make adequate teams. Games were determined by choosing up sides. The best two players were selected as captains and then alternated selecting until all who desired to play were chosen. Games ended when recess ended, but no one really cared who won.

When I was eight, I broke my arm trying to roller skate backwards. It was in the late spring, so school was still in session. I discovered I had a terrific weapon in the plaster cast. Elmer, a boy in a grade ahead of me, often teased me and threatened to beat me up. On the playground he made a negative remark about Tom Dewey, the Republican candidate for President that my family supported. I responded with a nasty word about FDR and he ran at me in rage. I used my new weapon to knock him to the ground and proceeded to pound on his arms and head. He responded with shouts of pain and buckets of tears. This was not a popular thing to do as I was punished by both the teacher and later my father; but I defended my candidate.

There were memorable things in this little two room school house. We celebrated all the holidays with plays, songs, or readings. Christmas was always a great time as we sang the old familiar carols and did a skit with the Wise Men and the Baby Jesus. Easter and Halloween were times of candy and parties. Valentine’s Day meant a valentine for everyone in class so as not to identify secret loves.

Mrs. MacIntyre introduced me to musical instruments. Once a week she would bring a box of rhythm instruments: noise-makers, rattles, castanets, drums sticks, and kazoos. She would play the piano and we would accompany her with whatever tool we were given. I loved this activity but never developed a good sense of rhythm.

During the third and fourth grades our teacher, Miss Oberski, stirred my interest in history. I discovered the encyclopedia in the classroom and whenever I finished my assignments, I would look up different countries and their history. Also during this time I discovered a series of books in the Ubly Public Library that were about youngsters in different countries. For example, one was entitled Sean O’Daye of Ireland. There must have been fifteen in the series. I read them all.

Another innovation Miss Oberski brought to us was a competition during the spring with other schools. Bingham Township had five elementary schools in the surrounding country side, one-room buildings containing students in grades K through 8. Since she had recently earned her teaching certificate and most of the country school teachers were also young, Miss Oberski challenged a friend to a softball game between our 3rd and 4th graders and their K—8th graders. We town boys were miffed that the ball of choice was a softball, but we agreed to meet them in combat. As word spread among the country schools, others wanted to participate. So for two years I was involved in playing softball against some of the country schools. One of the things I learned was the farm girls could hit the ball a country mile. Fortunately, the teams with a couple of 8th graders were burdened with 1st and 2nd graders who often made outs. We didn’t win them all, but had a wonderful time, especially when we went to the country schools to play. Years later when I was in high school, I would meet these country-school kids and we would relive the times.

Living in a small town had many advantages and I seemed to take advantage of most of them, sometimes without getting into trouble.

PART FOUR—EXLORING THE TOWN

Ubly had one main street that was crossed by highway M19 at the west end. The entire town was ringed by hills except where the north branch of the Cass River flowed in and out of town. I was told that the valley represented the last glacier to melt in Michigan. The business district consisted of five gas stations, three grocery stores, a drug and notions store, a hardware store, two car dealers, two hotels and bars, a bank, a post office, a newspaper, and a dry goods store. In addition the town boasted milk processing plant, two grain elevators, a lumber yard, and a power plant producing electricity for the rural areas.

The newspaper office was located right next to our hotel. It was housed in a large red brick building and was a one woman operation. Sarah Mixture was the editor, reporter, publisher, and business manager for the weekly Ubly Courier. The newspaper was only four pages and it carried news of birth, hospitalizations, weddings, funerals, and social events. Occasionally there would be some real news, but not often. The Courier kept us up to date with the Euchre and bowling leagues in the winter and price of grain and other crops in the summer.

Mrs. Mixture allowed me to watch the printing process as she daubed ink on the rollers and stacked newsprint on the conveyer that took it through the press. All the type was set by hand, which Sarah did on Tuesday and Wednesday in preparation for the actual printing on Thursday. On Friday she took the type out of its setting and put each piece in its own container. Both the setting of type and the dismantling of the setting were labor intensive.

As I grew a little older, she would allow me to help dismantle the settings. A small wooden hammer was used to loosen the type guides and the individual letters would fall free. I stared at the backwards and sometimes upside down letters and put them in the correct container for identity and size. We would take a break at noon and she’d make a pot of tea and some small sandwiches, with cookies for dessert. I loved that tea, but whenever I asked my mother or Rocky for tea, what they gave me never tasted like Mrs. Mixture’s. Years later I learned that it was Earl Grey tea.

There were many new things for a youngster to explore. The railroad tracks crossed Main Street on the east side. An empty depot stood on the railroad tracks end as no passenger trains came through Ubly. My pals and I would walk the railroad tracks out into the country side across the Cass River to a woodland pasture, about half a mile from town. These woods became our playground, as did the river, in summer. Although it was quite shallow, no more than 18 inches in most places, we discovered we could dam it up and make a little pond for swimming. It was wonderful in the heat of summer to have a place to cool off. Once out of the water, we would pick the blood suckers off each other and tread back home.

There were little fish in the river that posed a challenge for us young fishermen. We would buy the smallest hooks at the hardware store, dig worms for bait, tie strings on tree branches, and fish for hours. The major problem was the mouths of the native fish were too small for most of hooks and even when they would go for the bait; we couldn’t catch them unless we snagged them in the side. Occasionally a larger fish would appear and we would get very excited about the prospect of hauling in a big one. The only pike that I saw caught was measured 13 inches and weighed nearly two pounds. It was taken home by one of the boys to be cooked. Whether it was or not, I cannot tell.

The Cass River flowed past the milk processing plant and the water used to clean the machinery used in canning condensed milk was dumped into the river just a few blocks north of Main Street. The water that flowed under the Main Street Bridge was nearly white and few creatures lived in it, but grasses and weeds clogged its banks. I was forbidden to play in or near that portion of the river. By the time the water had traveled a mile or so south of town, it became clear again. People were very leery of using fish from the river as food.

The grain elevators presented an opportunity for exploration. After the wheat harvest, the granaries would be full. They proved to be an excellent place for us to play. We would secretly climb into the mound of wheat, bury part way and pretend to be at war. I learned that it could have been dangerous, or so my dad said when it was reported I was using the granary as a play room. I learned that it was out of bounds when dad gave me a scolding and a paddling.

Another place that drew my attention was the milk plant. Since a number of men who worked there were fathers of my friends, we could usually watch the process without too much hampering. I learned the process from the milk entering a huge kettle to be condensed into regular or sweetened varieties to the labeling of the cans just before they were boxed. I marveled that the cans would be labeled with Nestles labels one time, Carnation another, and Kroger or A&P the next. Even though the plant was owned by the Nestles Corporation, it produced condensed milk for other companies.

Often when we returned from the river down the railroad track we would stop at the milk plant for a cool drink. It was convenient because the tracks ran right by the plant.