The Boy Delivering Milk

From the age of five I was out on the milk round with my dad, in all weathers, before most people were awake. But the milk round was only half of it. Each evening we delivered grocery orders from four local shops. My dad had a carrier’s licence, so in between the milk and the groceries we moved people’s furniture, goods, and whatever needed shifting.

We even took racing pigeons to their starting points.

Crates stacked in the back, birds cooing and restless, ready for release miles away. It was all part of the job.

There was no rest, no childhood rhythm, no playing out on a Saturday.

It was work in the morning, work in the evening, and work in the gaps.

People would say, “Look at Terry, such a good lad helping his dad.”

But they never saw the weight of it.

They never saw how much was carried on small shoulders.

This was my world for years — milk, groceries, furniture, pigeons — always moving, always working, always being the lad who helped his dad.

School was for resting not learning.

Movement is a resting and learning place.

You can rest here too.

(i)