Enjoy this article in honor of this June’s dairy month. Louis Mihalyi provides a first-hand
account of a sudden fire that consumed the Glenfield Milk Station on May 8, 1934. Reading this
will evoke nostalgia for a time of milk trains, ice houses that stored blocks cut from the Black
River, and box cameras. The absence of a Glenfield fire department highlights the community’s
continued reliance on our volunteer fire fighters. Just as importantly, perhaps, it emphasizes the
importance of a community bearing witness, and remembering.

It was about seven or eight AM on May 8, 1934. I was doing some work for my mother in the garden. The diffing was going rather slowly. I had to get it done before going to school so she could do some planting before lunch. I paused to lean on my shovel when I heard some shouting. I looked in the direction of the milk station from which the sound was coming. The Glenfield milk station was located several hundred yards across the railroad tracks from our home and the garden where I was digging. The shouting grew louder.

As I watched there suddenly appeared a patch of flame near the roof peak of the building. It rapidly spread until the whole roof was engulfed.

The growing shouts alerted my parents who came out of the house. My father who was great on recording events had my mother bring out her black Kodak box camera and take some snaps. It did not take long for the whole town to be alerted. A crowd gathered to watch as within minutes the whole building seemed to fall in on itself.

Glenfield did not have a fire department. The village depended on the Lowville Rural Fire Department which was seven miles away. It was apparent to everyone that the building was lost. Students on their way to school lingered as did I. Reluctantly I put my shovel away and left the scene. There were quite a few unexcused absences that morning. When I returned home at noon for lunch only smoking ruins remained.

The first milk station in Glenfield was constructed in 1899 by the firm of McDermott and Bunger. During the first quarter of the twentieth century the Glenfield station was the largest shipper of milk between Utica and Watertown. At the time nearly every little community along the New York Central had a milk station and a side track to serve it. What we called the “milk train” came through Glenfield early every morning to pick up the previous day’s milk. It was a noisy affair and some residents used it as an alarm clock.

Early every morning horse drawn rigs lined up at the station. Milk cans were unloaded, emptied, washed, and returned to their owners. It was a clamorous event. Handing milk cans could not be done in silence. The line was a kind of social affair. Greetings were given, news was traded and all kinds of small talk went up and down the waiting line. On their way home, after delivering their milk, farmers could stop at one of the several stores that serviced Glenfield at the time. Gradually, during the late twenties and early thirties, the horse drawn rigs were replaced by stake and pickup trucks. The horse was on its way out.

The lost building was huge, long and high. Within, there was a large space where cheese was made when there was a surplus of milk during the spring and summer months. Also, there was space for the storage of ice which originally was cut from the Black River and the man made “Hilts” pond. There were times when ice was stored outside in a huge sawdust filled bin. Several years before the fire, the plant owners had installed a mechanical ice making plant replacing the ice harvest.

During the cheese making small fry could visit and receive, free, a handful of fresh curd wrapped in a circle of cheesecloth. These were the disks that were placed in the bottom and top of the wooden “cheese wheel” frames. I recall a number of times savoring the delicious free, rubbery curd. One local family had its children visit the plant as often as possible. They canned the curd for use during the winter. During those depression years every little bit helped.

Sheffield Farms, which owned the burned structure replaced it with a smaller modern plan with a lower silhouette. It contained updated ice making equipment. The station operated until 1960 when bulk milk hauling from farm to station via tanker was phased in.

Thus, ice cutting in Glenfield disappeared. The plant no longer functions. Subsequentially, for a time, Elwin Rowell used the building to process maple sap into syrup.

Currently, the building still stands, unoccupied, empty and quiet. Close by, adjacent to the building, are the remains of the railroad side track, also empty and quiet. And so events become history.

What happened to my digging? Well, it was not finished that day. It had to wait until the following day when distractions were at a minimum.