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Growing up in a community of about 20,000 people, I was proud to call myself a city kid rather than someone from “the sticks.” It was a small city, but residents enjoyed services that were unavailable in the countryside. The people providing them were also our neighbors, earning a living while making everyday life easier.

Mr. Bailey, our milkman, was one of them. Three days a week, he arrived in an enormous white Meadow Gold Dairy truck that kept its cargo cool. His uniform matched the milk: a white shirt, white pants and white shoes, finished with a small black bow tie.

One of his legs was shorter than the other, giving him a pronounced limp. Even so, he moved quickly, greeted customers with a smile and supported five children through his delivery route.

On delivery mornings, Mom placed our empty glass bottles on the screened porch. Our regular order was two quarts of whole milk, plus whipping cream whenever she planned to bake.

Mr. Bailey knew the order without asking. He filled a metal carrier resembling an oversized six-pack holder, hurried to the house and replaced the empties with fresh bottles. Their pleated paper caps made them look like a row of nurses in white uniforms.

In 1955, milk averaged 22 cents a quart, but Mom paid 35 cents per quart for home delivery. She usually paid Mr. Bailey directly and gave him a little extra. When the family planned to be away, she simply left his money in an envelope on the porch.

Then he would carry the empty bottles back to his truck, their glass sides clanking together as he rushed toward his next stop.

Because I was the only child still living at home, our order was modest. The Edmonson family up the street, with three children, needed far more. I happened to be visiting once when their delivery arrived and was astonished by the number and size of the bottles.

Unlike our short, rounded containers, Mrs. Edmonson’s bottles were tall and slender. Cream collected in their narrow necks, floating above the milk. She picked up each bottle and shook it firmly to blend the cream back in.

Door-to-door milk delivery—and many of the jobs that came with it—eventually disappeared. What I miss most about those old-school days is not merely the service, but knowing the people whose work made daily life more comfortable.