Paper boys...

It's a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon. A good day for being lazy. Debbie is reading and I'm trying to think of something to do to ward off boredom. I would like to get a good fire going but I can't talk Debbie into bringing in any firewood. While looking at Christmas cards received from family, friends, and others who remember to buy cards early enough to get them mailed, I read one from an old friend. Its handwritten note at the bottom wished Debbie and I a merry Christmas and "hey Russ, we sure enjoy reading your blog!" He didn't add, "If you would write in it once in a while" but I know what he was thinking. There I was already feeling guilty for never remembering to send out cards and old Kris had to add to the guilt. I decided right then and there to get up, walk down the hall to my study, and take a nap in my favorite rocker. After I woke up from my nap I had kind of lost all that zeal for writing. I walked into the den and mentioned to Debbie that I couldn't decide whether to write a story or play my banjo. She immediately replied, "Oh, please, please write a story!" I guess Debbie is missing my stories too.

I know it's hard to believe but everyday of my growing up years wasn't action packed and newsworthy. I'm afraid if I just write any old thing you will say, 1) that's not particularly interesting, or 2) he's told us that story a hundred times. When I started this blog I had so many memories tucked away I could write all day and never say the same thing twice. Now I worry about those two items above. I did make an index of my stories which would have been very helpful to me if I hadn't lost it. I don't think I've told this before and if I have I'm sorry and I'll be happy to refund your money.

In 1963 I decided I was old enough and mature enough to get a job. I found out though that most places wouldn't hire a twelve year old. However, the Fort Worth Press newspaper was just tickled to take me on and give me my own route. I was in business and sure to grow rich in no time. The route was long and meandering through south Hurst. It took my manager a long time to train me and help me memorize my route. If I remember right he spent a whole afternoon teaching me before telling me my papers would be delivered to my house the next day. After getting lost a couple of times and having way too many papers left over I learned the route and the addresses. I loved throwing the paper! I saw lots of friends on the route, the little old ladies loved me, and very few dogs chased me after they got to know me.

One of the fun things those of us in the business liked to do was tease each other as we worked our routes. I threw for the Fort Worth Press and others threw for the Fort Worth Star Telegram. Some of our routes overlapped and when we happened to show up on the route at the same time we had to do something to rile the other guy. Since I was twelve and most of the boys were fourteen or older I possibly lost most of these encounters. I would throw my paper on the porch and when the ST guy showed up he might toss my paper in a mud puddle or fling it out in the street. It was a fun time. Sunday mornings were a real hoot because we had the same camaraderie going on and it was DARK! Sunday was also the only day we could toss the paper in the yard rather than carefully lay it on the front porch. The Sunday paper was always too big because of all the ads and exceptions had to be made. The ST boys always borrowed their dads' old 1953 Chevy to throw the papers on Sunday and I would ride my Western Flyer cherry red bicycle. They would come up behind me and honk their horn or drive by real fast hitting a fist against the outside of the door to see if I would lose control of my bike and spill my papers all over the street. They were rarely disappointed. It was great fun. Eventually my Dad found out about the fun we were having and started getting up early on Sundays and slowly driving the old 1950 Chevy pickup around my route while I stood on the running board and threw the papers from there. Luckily, it wasn't yet dangerous or illegal to do things like that.

The most fun I had was collecting for the paper at the end of each month. The ST boys would always look me up in the school lunchroom just to say "hello, how's it goin" and "what nights are you going to be collecting for the paper?". Mama didn't raise no fool. After about three months of our kidding around and me losing all my money I learned to lie about the nights I would be out collecting. One night my cousin, Mike, was spending the night and I asked him if he wanted to go out with me while I collected for the paper. He was all for it until we actually went. It was a cool fall night with a full moon and we got to talking about vampires and werewolves....you know, regular stuff. We both got a little shaky and after we had walked past the woods along our neighborhood and greeted by a screech owl we were both wishing we had stayed home. We took a shortcut across an open lot because the road curved there and we could save a few steps by cutting across. I told Mike the owner of lot was crazy and hated kids. We were just about through the lot when an old 1953 light blue Chevy came around that curve. While the oldest insane ST kid drove, the younger one hung out his window with a blood curdling scream and hit the side of the passenger door. Mike and I both screamed like little girls and I came real close to wetting my pants. The ST boys waved as they drove away with an unspoken promise to have more fun next time we met. We turned around and went home....really fast.

I kept that route and improved it with new subscriptions until it was just too big to work from walking or a bicycle. When my manager offered to split my papers into two bundles, one to be delivered to my house, and one left about halfway along the route I declined and gave it up. A couple of years later Glenn got himself a Star Telegram route. I helped him with it and begged our Dad to loan us that old Chevy pickup to use on Sundays. He told us grandma didn't raise no fool but he did drive us around the route on Sundays. By then the other ST boys were probably in prison and we never saw them again.