Last week, I wrote about being a paperboy during my 7th and 8th grade years. I found the word limit for my columns approaching too quickly, but with stories still untold. Please forgive me for expounding again with a sequel on the same topic. I find these memories to be so comical, especially when I am fatigued… I just have to share them with you.

As I wrote, my route covered the west and south ends of town. On my blue Betty bicycle, I could finish the route in about an hour and a half. This is assuming I did not goof off or stop at the Polar Bear for food and drink nourishment. One particular day, I decided I was going to walk the route instead of pedaling. This turned out to be not the wisest decision of my young life. It took more than double the time to finish the route. It was near dark when I stumbled into the house. All I got from mom and dad was the “I told you it was a stupid idea” look.

For those Sunday morning deliveries, the rule was that the customer should have their paper on their porch or in their mailbox by no later than 7 am. This meant a very early start time on what was supposed to be a day of rest. My sympathetic mom would set an alarm and drive me on that early morning route, rather than have me out in the dim predawn light. On the Sunday that coincided with Mother’s Day, I decided to give my mom a gift I knew she would enjoy… I would let her sleep in. Without her knowledge, I turned off her alarm the night before. I rose and quietly did the pre-flight checklist of stuffing ads, loading my bag, etc. I rode off into the still dark morning, verbally patting myself on the back for being such a “good son”. No doubt that these kinds of selfless acts are why I was always her favorite child. It was a tougher time than I had anticipated, as the bag was pretty heavy with those larger Sunday editions. I finished the route and entered the house to find her in the kitchen with a smile on her face. That was a pretty special hug I got that morning!

Trigger warning…this next tale involves a lack of temper control and some mild physical violence. A small section of my route included the business section of downtown Preston. I would deliver multiple copies to those stores for their own resale purposes. A shortcut was to park my bike at the end of the block and, once finished with those drop-offs, use the alley behind the stores to walk back to my bike. As I strolled down the alley one wintery afternoon, a couple of older boys were trailing behind me. They were known as bullies, and I usually avoided them in the hallways at school. They started cat-calling me and throwing snowballs in my direction. Let’s remember that I am only 14 years old and in the late stages of puberty, so my mood and temperament were unpredictable. I slowed my pace and let them catch up to me. Like a skinny, timid ninja, I quickly spun round. My right arm was outstretched, and my gloved fist clenched. I landed a roundhouse hook squarely to the mouth of one of the bullies that would make Mike Tyson both proud and jealous. They were so shocked that not another word was uttered from either one of them. I was equally shocked, as this was the first punch I had ever landed in my life. I can still remember the look on his face and the feel of his teeth through my glove.

I have already described the heartache of losing the subscription contest to my friend Dave. (Last name omitted to protect his innocence). But I will boast a bit by saying that when I took over the route, I had approximately 55 customers. When I turned it over to the next carrier a couple of years later, I had built the route up to about 80. I think my peak was in the high 80’s. Not too bad for a job that averaged me less than $50 spending money per month. That bought plenty of burgers and milkshakes, but no boxing lessons. I think I may have had to buy a new inner tube or two to make repairs, but that was part of that balance sheet lesson Dad taught me…revenue versus expenses.

Carrier routes have said their goodbyes. It feels like it was not that long ago that I witnessed the lady who was my papergal for the morning paper cleaning out the remainder of the Halloween candy left in a bowl on my porch. I had failed to bring it in the night before. She was welcome to it, as I appreciated that newspaper being on the porch for my daily ritual. Maybe that was my way of being like Mr. Weber and giving her a tip in the form of candy. To all my former customers, Dad, Mom, and the newspaper industry as a whole, I say thank you. Job well done!