The Milkman

My maternal grandfather delivered milk for a living, but his work was only one part of who he was. He had a gift for making people feel known, and he seemed to meet every soul as if they were already an old friend.

A World War II veteran, he witnessed Mussolini’s body hanging in Milan, later married, raised two daughters, and faced cancer with courage before dying too young in 1997. His death came about two months after the loss of his first great-grandson.

Calling him a character would be an understatement. He was welcoming, charming, and impossible to ignore. When he visited us during my childhood in South Louisiana, he would walk through the door with a smile and ask my dad for a “highball,” an old-fashioned term for a cocktail once popular in New York.

During his years as a milkman, when I was still young, my grandfather was involved in a terrible accident with his delivery truck. A passenger in the other vehicle died as a result.

I still remember - or perhaps only think I remember - seeing the image of a milk truck on television. What remains clearer is his somber presence in the days that followed, a heaviness that seemed to stay with him long after the incident itself.

Never one to mince words, he attended as many of my high school football, basketball, and baseball games as he could. He always made sure everyone knew he was there, including the officials. I was his oldest grandchild, and he could not have been prouder of me.

I still remember the hunting trips we took outside the town of White Castle. He rarely wandered far from where we began, perhaps because he worried about getting lost in the woods. Before heading out, we would share early-morning coffee and biscuits with Mr. Joe and Mrs. Margaret, then set off in search of squirrels we almost never shot.

I also remember the Saturday evening Masses we attended together. He served as an usher and passed the collection basket, carrying himself with the same familiar warmth and quiet presence he brought everywhere else.

Of all my memories of him, the one that remains clearest is what he said after our first son - his first great-grandson - died from a heart defect at just eighteen days old. At the time, my grandfather was battling cancer himself and was only about two months from his own death.

When I visited him, he was fragile and fading, seated in the living room chair where he had held court for so many years. Looking at me, this giant of a man -now severely diminished by a disease no one should have to face - offered the only words his generation, his life, and his experience seemed able to give:

“I heard you had some bad luck.”

I am not sure what I expected to hear that day. But nearly thirty years later, his words still return to me, reminding me of Robert Frost’s simple and eloquent observation: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

Looking back now, I realize how much he must have carried: regrets, hardships, pain, and loss. Still, he met life with warmth, humor, and a spirit that made others feel welcome.

How I miss him: his voice, his mannerisms, his toothless smile, and the unmistakable presence that made him such a character to behold. His love for his wife and two daughters was immeasurable, and his zest for life remains something worth emulating.

I wish he could have known his great-grandchildren. I know he would have been proud of them, just as we remain proud to carry his memory forward.

His name was Vic.

He was a milkman.

May his memory be a blessing.