Mom was running the Kewanee milk route for Dad one day, picking up milk in big heavy cans and hauling them to the Galva Creamery Company. Dad had a deal worked out with the farmers so they loaded the cans for her. When Dad ran the route, he usually helped them.
Monty and I were with her that day. We had been singing songs like we usually did. Our favorites were The Marine’s Hymn and The Caissons Go Rolling Along.
Suddenly, Mom stopped singing and told us to get down on the floor. She didn’t shout, but we could tell by the tone of her voice that she meant business. We didn’t question it—we got down immediately.
We asked her what was wrong.
“The engine died,” she said. “When the engine dies, the air brakes don’t work.”
I had been looking through the windshield just before she told us to get down. We were a little less than halfway down a hill.
The light at the bottom of the hill turned red.
That meant the cross traffic had the right of way.
I remember seeing the cars sitting there at the intersection.
I’m guessing the drivers saw the crazy people in the big runaway milk truck coming down the hill a little too fast and decided it might be best to stay right where they were.
Mom gripped the big steering wheel and kept the truck pointed straight down the hill.
The truck was heavy with a full load of milk cans. Once it started downhill, there was no way to stop it without brakes.
My stomach did that flip-flop thing it does when you go down a hill too fast. Usually it made me laugh.
This time it didn’t.
It all happened so fast. We made it through the stoplight without mishap. We were still rolling, but Mom finally got the engine started again and pulled off to the side of the highway.
We waited there for a few minutes. Then Mom pulled back into traffic and continued on to the creamery in Galva.
I was only six years old, but that is something I will never forget.
Through My Eyes, Gently 