2 thoughts on “Facebook

  1. Here is a wonderful story of the Progressive Dairy horses. My father died in 1965 at age 49. He was a business man in town and had many people come through to pay their respects. Our old milkman came through and my mother said to me, “Oh Karen…do you remember our old milkman from Progressive?”
    “Yes” I replied. “Your name was Bob.”
    His reply to me: “No. Bob was my horse. My name is ……”.
    Because I passed the ice house every day 4 times on my way to/from Fratt School, we kids would stop there, go in and grab a chunk of ice. It wasn’t until years later that I found out the ice was from Root River.
    I also remember the rag man coming through once or twice a year with his horse drawn cart.

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