Paperboy

My dad turned 88 this week. I made him this card for his birthday. I enjoyed creating and painting this knowing he was a paperboy when he was younger. The words on the paper are too small for you to read, but it states the day of my dad’s birthday and then says: Keith Tibbitts Birthday – From paperboy to the best dad in the world…” Today, when I decided to post this card, I realized I didn’t know very much about those earlier days when he threw papers to neighboring porches, so I called him for a few details.

He was a paperboy for the Post Register in his younger years; he thinks from the age of 12 to 16. As depicted in my card, he rode a bike when at all possible, but with two bags hanging over the bike. In the winter the snow became packed between the fender and the tire, causing him to have to push his bike, and so walking became the better option. In those days a boy would own their own paper route and could hire another boy to help. He began as a “helper” for $1 a week. As a helper earning a dollar a week, he says his paper route passed a corner grocery store – a mom and pop store consisting of a house in the neighborhood turned into a small store. They delivered papers right after school and he laughingly told me that he spent most of his dollar in that store before the week was out. This was when bread was 10 cents a loaf. He spent his money on candy or soda pop at 5 cents each and at times saved enough for a 10 cent Saturday matinee movie.

My dad eventually owned his own paper route with the Post Register and He spent every Saturday morning collecting money from the customers  for the papers delivered. They paid most of that money to the Post Register and the rest paid for the $1 helper, earning about $4 per week.  He earned that only if every customer paid, but they didn’t all pay. That portion came out of the route owners part. His route included a street called Ada Avenue, where 15 to 20 years later he built our first family home; the home I began my childhood in.

My dad remembers sitting down on the sidewalk in front of the Post Register to fold the papers. Back then they folded the papers into a 6×6 square, first folding the paper into threes and then going the opposite direction, tucking the top fold into the bottom fold. With not enough time to fold all of the papers, he rode his bike without hands in order to fold the rest as they delivered. Speaking about one specific day, quoting my dad, he said: “After folding our papers, I saw an open door at a home we delivered to. I told my helper to watch this. As we rode our bikes along the road I let fly a folded paper that sailed thru his door, thru his living room, landing in his kitchen. It scared him to death as he uttered a few choice words and smiled as he came out onto his porch. We got pretty accurate with all the practice we had throwing papers. I couldn’t let the opportunity go by. It’s as if it were just yesterday; a great memory!!!”

 It is easy to look back on those former days and become nostalgic when talking with my dad. I love to hear his stories! I hope this post reminds some of you of your earlier days, regardless of our age. Plenty of you may have delivered newspapers, but if not, perhaps you’ll recall a few other younger-life jobs. Jobs, quite often, are just “jobs” while you’re at them. What makes them seem so nostalgic later in life? Perhaps it’s the friends we make while working. Maybe it just feels good to know you did something worthwhile and hard. Maybe you learned a lesson from it and it lasted a lifetime. Maybe it simply takes you back to the days of other joys – seasons with memories we cherish. Whatever the case may be, I hope you have fond memories.

While writing this post a story came to my mind. It’s about Dieter F. Uchtdorf. When he was 11 years old his family had to leave East Germany and begin a new life in West Germany. He became a laundry delivery boy to help with their small family business. Many years later he discovers what a huge blessing it was to perform that labor. I hope you read his story. It’s excellent.