The Schwan's Man
Growing up in rural Oklahoma, I never had a corner store or even a restaurant that meant anything to me, but I did have a Schwan’s Man. The “Schwan’s Man” and his yellow, multi-doored truck were a staple in households across Oklahoma for five decades. Schwan’s started as an ice cream delivery service in Minnesota in 1952, an innovative move for a family-run dairy. By the time I became acquainted with the business in the 1980s, its roster of frozen foods was long and legendary. I remember pizzas with pepperonis like little upturned bowls full of grease. Ice cream sandwiches, orange push pops, frozen veggies, breaded chicken. Now-dated novelties like chicken Kyiv and Mexican pizza. In middle school, I developed a habit of microwaving a Schwan’s eggroll in the morning and taking it with me on the long ride to school. Although I doubt there was anything exceptional about those egg rolls, I can still remember exactly what it felt like to bite through the shell into the juicy, cabbagey interior.
It was simultaneously of the past and the future, evoking both the milkman and Instacart.
Everything about Schwan’s has grown more miraculous to me over time. It was simultaneously of the past and the future, evoking both the milkman and Instacart. Its frozen convenience foods inspired the kind of dogmatic loyalty that would later be reserved for Trader Joe’s Cookie Butter. It invited housewives born of the “everything canned” ’50s to step seamlessly into the “everything frozen” future.
But nothing it did was more miraculous than its service to rural communities. As a child, I lived on a dairy farm about 14 miles from a grocery store, but Schwan’s delivered to us, and did so with the unhurried manner of a family friend dropping off a casserole. At my grand-mother’s house, the Schwan’s Man (his name is lost to me now) would come to the sliding glass door in the back, the one reserved for farmhands and family. Sometimes he would accept a cup of coffee before fishing the day’s treasures out of his truck.
When I graduated college and moved to Oklahoma City, it never occurred to me that I could have my own Schwan’s Man. I thought Schwan’s was a privilege reserved for country people. Then, a few months ago, the news came that the yellow trucks were leaving Oklahoma for good. You can still order “Schwan’s,” but it comes through the mail; the company is now called Yelloh; and there’s an app (naturally). I thought about snagging the app and placing an order, but my heart wasn’t in it. I can think of half a dozen ways to have an eggroll brought to my door right now, but nothing can replace the magic of the Schwan’s Man.
