Start Spreading the News

I remember the sense of pride I felt when I was handed my very own canvas newspaper delivery bag.  With it, I also received a ring of cards identifying each subscriber on my route, as well as my own paper punch for keeping track of customers’ payments. I had a paper route and had been entrusted with the responsibility of daily delivery of The Sharon Herald.

Each day after school and on Saturday afternoons, I waited for the call from Mr. Karfes. In his thick, old-world accent he announced, “The papers are in,” and off I pedaled to his newsstand. Sometimes, due to printing or delivery problems, the other carriers and I waited at the newsstand for the papers to arrive. Several times, we were out delivering until well after dark. While we waited, we filled up on junk food charged against the tab old Mr. Karfes kept for each of us. Many bottles of grape pop were charged to my account, but I was thrilled to be earning my own money which I could spend freely on my guilty pleasures.

When the newspaper truck arrived, Mr. Karfes counted out papers for each of his carriers. We re-counted each of our stacks, smearing grimy newsprint all over our hands, making sure our count was neither over nor under. Nobody wanted to be short a paper at the end of the day’s delivery and then have to walk or bike all the way back across town to get another.

Wednesday’s papers were heavy and thick, filled with advertising circulars, and impossible to roll for delivery.  I wonder if some of my middle-aged back pains might not trace back to a canvas sack loaded with Wednesday newspapers. Sometimes I rode my bike to deliver papers, loading them into the saddle baskets on the rear of my old, second-hand Schwinn. When the weather called for rain or snow, I packed my papers inside black plastic trash bags in an effort to keep them dry. This method rarely worked, and many a customer received a soggy paper.

Newspaper delivery was expected regardless of rain, sleet, snow, or blazing summer heat. If I were going to be away on vacation, I was responsible to find and train a substitute to deliver my papers. One time when I had a nasty case of the flu and was unable to find a replacement I stretched out on the back seat of my father’s Pontiac, sitting up to direct him as he delivered my papers.

I was away at church camp during the week the biggest news story of my childhood broke. On the day President Nixon resigned from office, the substitute for my paper route missed delivery to one of my customers. She was terribly disappointed not to get her copy of the paper whose headline read, “NIXON RESIGNS,” in large, bold print. I’m not sure she ever forgave me.

Mr. Karfes billed each of his carriers once a month for the papers we delivered. We were expected to collect payment from our customers. Some paid weekly, some monthly, and I had to learn to manage my cash flow. At times when I came collecting, some of my customers hid, pretending not to be home. Others tried to get away with punching their own payment tickets, arguing that they had already paid me. Whether I was able to collect from my customers or not, I was responsible for paying Mr. Karfes for my papers as well as for the many grape pops I had charged to my account. I was surprised to learn that otherwise respectable adults would sometimes try to shortchange a kid working hard just to earn a little spending money.

Most of my customers did pay their bills on time, and many were very generous with Christmas tips. Through tips and my earnings, I was able to save enough to buy myself a brand new shiny ten-speed bicycle. Lacking saddle baskets and having skinny little tires, however, my new bike was completely impractical for delivering papers, especially in the snow.

I don’t subscribe to a newspaper now; most of the news, when I care to read it, I can find online. In my neighborhood, most folks who do receiver a paper have it delivered by an adult who drives a car. I wonder if newspaper routes are even still available for teens. Newspaper delivery was hard, dirty work and I was paid only two cents for each paper I delivered. In many ways, I think old Mr. Karfes got more work out of his army of delivery boys and girls than was probably either ethical or legal. As I look back on that experience, I shake my head thinking I was willing to work so hard for so little. But I was honored to have my own route and my own canvas delivery bag and proud to be able to earn my own money, even if I did spend so much of it on grape pop.

(This post is the third in a series I've been writing about jobs I had when I was a kid. I'm honored that David Rupert, who blogs at Red Letter Believers, featured these stories in his post at The High Calling)