Long ago, when a young lad, at grandma’s farm in northern Minnesota, I was sitting on the back stoop with my trusty .22 rifle, looking at a milk can across the drive which had just been filled by my uncle after a long time of milking our cows. The milk can was waiting for the milk truck. Milking by hand is labor intensive and very tiring. My uncle always drank beer to mitigate the pain. Lots of beer.

I decided to put a dent in the can with my trusty .22. “Bang!” It didn’t so much put a dent in the can as it put a hole in the can out of which came milk – lots of fresh, cool milk! I yelled for my uncle. He came running, salvaged as much as he could and then said some things to me that cannot be repeated on a family blog. And he said them over and over. “Stupid,” was one of the nicer things he said.

This incident was helpful in my understanding of the power of my trusty little .22 rifle.

Around here milk cans are prized and even the old rusty ones command a good price at the antiquey shops.