Galloway-West milking the past

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  • Ashley Colvin
    Ashley Colvin
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Phone | 903-919-5996 Email | ashley@

Email | ashley@ssnewstelegram.com

The dairy industry is the last known marker of my family’s trail. My father has no roots past the ones he so lovingly created for us, and my mother has no recollection of her own father’s story - he, like my father, was adopted. On the other hand, my maternal grandmother came from a long line of dirt farmers - she was the oldest of 12 and claimed herself as a “unit.” Far from having the desire to reminisce about the good ol’ days, grandma never really shared stories of her family; all wonderful people, I’m sure.

Regardless, by the time she was married to Grandpa West, she had found her “ticket out.” I digress, but grandma was a feisty red-headed spark plug, probably better known in those days as ‘too smart for her own good,’ and being humble was not one of her better-known traits. Living a healthy 84 years, she passed away in her sleep one night and moved on.

Farming, specifically dairy, holds a special place in my heart. Not because I grew up on a dairy farm personally, but my great grandfather was a young entrepreneur in Wisconsin, raising not only cattle, but himself as well (apparently) from the age of 12. In his adolescent years, he found a way to survive with a fellow peer of the same age, renting out an apartment together. He found his livelihood among the herd and committed to a joint venture with the Galloway family, dairy producers in Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin. My great grandfather sold his dairy business before it grew into the well-known company it is today. There are still remnants of the past, labeled on old dairy cans, when the company was dually labeled as Galloway-West Milk. You can still find them for sale on eBay.

His name was Walter West and although my family knows very little about him, we do know one thing…a load of crock. In fact, I doubt he ran away at 12 although that would be incredible. What kind of 12-year-old runs away and becomes involved in dairy production?

Upon talking with local Hopkins residents, it was apparently common in olden days for adolescents to join in on dairy farming and production whether you had a family or not. Let’s get real, back in the early 1900s there wasn’t much for a kid to do but work. As an acquaintance recently put it, you’re either going to show up and be here, or not – a message not many youths may understand today. Hard work was a rite of passage, not punishment.

Fast-forward, what’s left of my great grandfather is the history of his son and my grandfather, William Joseph West. He was born in a convent in Fond Du Lac, from a mother who had put him up for adoption and came to the U.S. as a first-wave immigrant from a land unknown. It is curious though, apparently, she was forced to put her child up for adoption at the time…because she was an immigrant and pregnant out of wedlock?

Following what little trail we have of his potential whereabouts; he was more than likely from Eastern Europe or the Balkans. With traces of DNA from what seems to be a path taken by Ashkenazi Jews, of course his story may be more interesting as an ‘unknown.’ Gramps was adopted by the Wests, a well-off Jewish family (although Catholic) from Chicago. It only gets more confusing.

Apparently great grandpa made his millions by coming up with his own technique for ‘homogenizing milk.’ In those days, if you owned a business or had any money at all, you had to pay protection rights to the mafia, or else. Well, word has been passed down that great grandpa didn’t pay those protection fees and in turn, he got his front porch bombed. We hear that’s how he really died.

Luckily, whatever dark secrets are lingering over great grandpa’s past, my family has an insanely obnoxious and unique sense of humor. Grandpa West, although I didn’t meet him either, was a wonderful and hilarious person. The stories about him seem made up as well, but they are without a doubt, very true.

My aunt Donna told me about the time he was at a Catholic boarding school. He woke up one night at 2 a.m. and ran to the priest’s quarters. Banging on the door, he woke him up to tell him that he had just had a dream about becoming a priest and he was committed to his fate. The priest, annoyed, looked at him and told him to go back to bed. He never became a priest.

Young and impressionable of course, he was also convinced he had roots tied to the mafia. He and three of his friends would ride down the streets of Chicago in his family’s Cadillac, all of their heads hanging out the windows while toting any type of gun they could find. They did it all for show of course, but looking back, I’m sure he realized it was a bad idea.

In fact, to stay out of trouble, he joined the Air Force and remained an airplane mechanic for 30 years. He became a Master Sergeant and developed into a pretty wonderful guy. He raised Dobermans - his favorite dogs. He played baseball. His nickname was “Hi Buddy,” because he would say “hi buddy” to everyone he knew, and there was rarely a person he hadn’t met. Although never making it to mob status, he continued to drink scotch and smoke cigars while wearing silk shirts and plaid pants. The man had style.

Grandma, as tough as she was had met her match with him and they were happily married until he passed. As for his adopted dad, or potentially, his biological father, the stories were probably all fake, but nonetheless fascinating. He did pass down one great thing, William Joseph West…and yeah, he was related to the West family of Galloway-West Milk. Like I said, the dairy industry holds a special place in my heart, but for some very non-traditional and hilarious reasons.