The Fourth of July decorations and flowers in the picture almost obscure the story.
That milk can.
My grandfather was in the National Guard. Long after he served, World War II broke out, so at the age of 39, he went to serve, leaving his oldest son—my dad—to help run the farm.
He was nine.
He, my grandmother, and some less-than-savory hired men struggled through the war, worrying about my grandfather and trying to keep the farm afloat. Mind you, everyone thought the war would be over in a few months, and then they could all move back to town.
So my dad did his part. He milked 15 cows. I didn’t think that was a huge number when I was a kid, but if you’ve ever milked a cow by hand, you realize there are easier gigs.
From the experience, he gained a strong grip and lost his childhood.
I never saw him play cards or any sort of game. He never played catch with us and seemed to lose the ability to relax. All the play had been worked out of him by the time Grandpa came back from the war.
So when I look at this cream can, I’m reminded that wars have many casualties, some far, far away from any battlefield.
I suppose the next generation will toss the milk can away. I can’t say I would blame them, but I can’t imagine getting rid of it myself, because I see what it stands for:
Sacrifice.
People die when their stories die. If you have a story about someone you admired, pass it down to someone you love.
And savor another chapter in your endless summer.
