TEMPLE, Texas—More than a half-century before celebrities such as Christie Brinkley and Muhammad Ali appeared wearing white mustaches in magazine ads, Temple had sprouted dozens of dairies that kept local hospitals, cafes and families supplied with fresh milk.

“At one time, there were 38 Grade A raw dairies in Temple—the Keaton Boys, the Champs, Krumnow, Doyle Cole, Wilburn Dairy, Waters Dairy and the Fowler Boys,” said Bill Gorden, son of a Temple dairy pioneer. “Everybody that had more than one cow had a dairy.”

In 1915, William Newton Gorden began selling milk that he produced northeast of town near Little Elm Creek. In the 1920s, he landed a contract with Kings Daughters Hospital, delivering in Temple seven days a week. Without fail.

“That was religion; you had to deliver milk,” Gorden said, looking back to his childhood during the Great Depression. “If it was raining, it didnt make any difference. If it was snowing, it didnt make any difference. He (Dad) had chains on all four wheels.”

Gorden Dairy used a covered milk truck that was pulled by a mule team.

On clear days, Gorden used a Dodge stakebed with open top. Bill Gorden grew up in those trucks. At first he rode shotgun, but when he grew tall enough to make the frequent dashes from the truck to the front stoop, he went to work.

“I rode with him from the time I was a little bitty fella, and I started working when I was 10 years old. That was my first job. I was a ’hot boy.”’ Gorden said, adding “hot boy” was the term for the young sprinters who rode along, dropping off fresh milk and picking up empty bottles.

In the 1930s, the Gordens invested in an automated milking machine, powered by gasoline engines operating pulsators that jiggled the Jersey cows four teats at once. It wasnt much faster than milking by hand, but it could milk cows several animals simultaneously.

When the milking machines broke down, everybody, including young Bill, had to pitch in and milk the old-fashioned way. And of course there was no use crying when a clumsy cow made a mess.

“He who has never had a cow step their foot in a bucket of milk is lying,” Gorden said. “Every once in a while youll be milking right by her back feet, and all of a sudden that foot goes right in the bucket, and you got to pour it out and start over.”

But that wasnt as painful as when a cow got loose in a field of cockleburs and picked some up in her tail. Sitting on a milking stool, both hands steadily squeezing, a swishing tail could scratch up your face before you knew it, Gorden said.

The Gordens at one time had 28 milking stalls. They milked the Jersey, Holstein and Guernsey cows in shifts. The animals learned when it was their turn and if one tried to cut in line, things got ugly.

“Sometimes, an old cow that was supposed to be in the third bunch would get in there with the second one and they would fight over which stall they had. Theyd go to the same stall each day. And they had the durndest fights you ever saw,” Gorden said. “Theyd butt each other, because that was their stall. I guarantee you they were just like people.”

Each year, dairy cows got about two months vacation from milking, if you call time off for childbirth a vacation. In the 1930s, the Gorden Dairy had about 30 cows. At its height in the 1950s, it had about 150. The family employed several people who lived on the farm.

In the mid-1940s, high demand for milk attracted some unscrupulous operators.

“In World War II, you could sell anything (for milk) that was white. Thats where you got the name ’Blue John.’ Certain times, they would mix milk and water,” Gorden explained. That mixture would take on a bluish tint. “We never did water ours down, but the city health department caught some people.”

In the 1950s, Gorden Daily quit bottling its own milk and sold to Austin and Waco dairies that sent tanker trucks to area dairies. By the 1980s, Gorden switched to farming cotton and corn on the familys 400 acres.