As I was editing the milk bottle collecting story by Mark Roeder, I was transported back to a time … let’s see – it was more than 50 years ago now – when we had two gallons of milk delivered to our house every other day.
The dairy provided an insulated box, silver on the outside, just large enough to hold two glass gallon bottles; the box was place just outside the back door. One wintry day my little brother Bob, about age 7 at the time, was going to be Mama’s helper and bring the milk into the house before it froze, which it sometimes did in spite of the insulated box. He lifted the two heavy bottles out of the box with no problem, but just as he got inside the door, between the top of the stairs that led down to the basement and the top of the three steps leading to the kitchen, the very cold, very heavy gallon bottles clinked ever-so-gently together. At the exact spot of that gentle clink, near the bottom of each bottle a small hole appeared, and the milk, two whole gallons of it, began to run down the basement stairs. Bob cried, and Mom cried.