(Note: This is a reprise of a blog I did a couple years back. It's been updated a little.)
With gift-giving season upon us, here’s a request from a former paperboy: Give your newspaper carrier a generous tip.
If you’re like most people, you get your paper delivered by a person you have almost no contact with, except for that humble Christmas card that comes with your paper, usually one or two Sundays prior to Christmas.
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So when you get that card, whether you celebrate Christmas or not, send a card or note back with a nice check. Fifty dollars, or about a dollar a week, would be the minimum in my book. Two hundred would be nice, if you can afford it. Consider yourself lucky that there are people willing to get up at 4 a.m. to bring us the news.
The Connecticut Post, as with most newspapers in the nation, no longer relies on children to deliver the product. The switch to morning publication, and a few other details, forced us to contract with adult carriers a few years back. I guess the idea of a multi-million dollar company relying on a bunch of 11-year-old kids didn’t sit too well with the suits. I’ll have to admit, they have a point.
As I said, I have some experience delivering papers. All former paperboys have a few stories to tell, so I’m going to tell you mine.
My route was shared with my friend, Bruce, who lived up the street from me. We had 36 customers, or 18 for each of us. I know that sounds like the shortest paper route in the history of journalism, but we had an excuse: our route was located in a subdivision with one- and two-acre lots. In addition, the hills were formidable, particularly when pedaling a Schwinn.
On the street where I lived. Our mailbox is the black one on the left.
We were both 11 when we began this business venture, which lasted for three years.
Our paper was The Bristol Press, which at that time was published six days a week. It was 7 cents a day then, or 42 cents a week. Collection day was Thursday, and on that day, Bruce and I usually did the route together, in part because it was psychologically more difficult for our customers to refuse us our measly 42 cents with both of us standing at the screen door.
Before we rang the doorbell, we would check first to see if anyone was inside. We did this by looking at the electric meter. If it was spinning fast (this was a neighborhood without gas service), someone had to be home.
As I recall, the Press got most of that 42 cents. Most people kindly gave us 50 cents and said, “Keep the change."
My Dad told me that I should always try to refuse the tip, and always have the eight cents ready to hand over. I told him (I had to think fast on this one) that I needed the eight cents to cover the deadbeats, which was true to some degree. Only I didn't say the word "deadbeats" because I didn't know it yet.
Another street on the route. The homes were far from one another, which cut into our profits.
Our best tipper was a nice guy I’ll call Mr. Wilson. He always handed us a dollar, and said something like “Don’t worry about it." He lived with his wife in a white ranch with a sunken living room. I remember standing at his front door on collection day, looking into his sunken living room. Wall-to-wall carpeting, like most living rooms back then.
Mr. Wilson's former house. Note the garage under the living room.
On one Sunday morning in the spring, with a sky of Kodachrome blue, I was alone in the dining room eating my bowl of Cap’n Crunch. It was one of one of the first warm days of the year, and my parents had opened the windows. There was a siren in the distance, and it was getting closer. The ambulance turned onto our street, charged up the hill and sped past our house. “Someone is having a bad day," my dad said.
We read the next day that Mr. Wilson pulled his Oldsmobile into his garage, closed the door, and let the big V-8 idle until it ran out of gas.
Another time, Bruce and I went to collect at the home of Elof, who was also my fire-and-brimstone Baptist Sunday school teacher. The big Swede was getting out of his car.
"Boys!" he said. "Come and look at this!"
Elof's former house.
He opened the trunk, and there was what must have been the largest snapping turtle in Connecticut. Its carapace was about two feet long.
Grasping the shell in his huge mits, he hauled the creature out of the trunk and trudged with it to the backyard. His placed the reptile on a steep bank facing uphill. The turtle flailed about, trying to gain some traction on the slope.
"I'll be right back!" Elof said, heading into his house. He soon returned with a .38 calibre revolver. We asked him why he was going to kill the turtle, and he said "Do you know how many fish these things eat?!!"
He took careful aim with the gun in his right hand, his left eye clamped shut. There was a pop, and the turtle's head disappeared.
Most people paid on time, but, like I said, we had a few problem customers. One was the minister to the big Episcopal Church in the city. Every time we went to collect, it was the same story: “Oh, there’s no change in the house," or something like that.
He had two lovely daughters, one our age, one a couple years older, so we really didn’t mind the repeat visits. Neither one was very impressed with me, no matter how fast I pedaled my Schwinn.
Eventually, the Rev. No Change fell $11.42 behind, which was a lot for a 7-cent newspaper. So, we sent him the nasty letter: “Dear Rev. No Change, You owe us $11.42 for 27 weeks. Pay us now or we will stop the Bristol Press."
An 11-year-old kid has a great economy of words.
When the next Thursday rolled around, I pedaled up the long dead-end street to the minister’s house. The older daughter answered the door. “Ah...Hi John…my mom left this for you," she said, handing me an envelope with some money in it.
I met up with Bruce, who was taking care of the other side of the street, and we opened the envelope. There was our $11.42. Not a penny more.
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