The alarm clock buzzed at 4 a.m. My one-hour workday began. Hurrying to the backyard, I mounted my one-speed Hawthorne bike and sped to the drop site at 15th and Knoxville, where 80 or so bundled newspapers awaited me.
Thinner editions allowed for Frisbee-style tossing onto front porches, with varying degrees of accuracy. I zig-zagged from house to house, wheeling south to 21st Street, north on Louisville and then back home.
At age 12, it was my first self-chosen, money-making job. Several nights a week, I knocked on front doors and announced: “Collect for The World” (the morning newspaper in Tulsa, then a two-newspaper town).
The cash-only payments reaped a $30 to $40 dollar monthly profit, proudly deposited in my passbook savings account.
What is it about my first paying job that is so memorable?
The wakeup hour was never oppressive. I was up before others in the house. On my own in the still, dark hours, I had no fear of the unknown. Steaming summers or shivering winters, kids rolled with those punches.
It was not a competitive job pitting me against a more talented kid, the kind of situation where I often felt overmatched. A paperboy was measured only by his attention to the task.
Delivery goofs were usually ignored by sleeping customers, although a missed delivery occasionally prompted a phone call.
This job was an early lesson about personal responsibility, along with feeding the dog and taking out the trash. Family responsibilities were dictated; I chose to work this odd-hour job. No nagging my parents for pocket change.
Most of all, I remember Sunday mornings, the biggest paper of the week, when Dad commandeered the car, newspapers in the Buick’s open trunk. He drove patiently in fits and starts. I trudged dutifully back and forth.
My pace quickened as we finished the long Louisville block. Awaiting was a trip to a motel restaurant for an early breakfast: blueberry pancakes and chocolate milk for me; eggs, bacon, coffee for Dad.
We talked baseball — the St. Louis Cardinals were our team — and quietly feasted. For one hour, as morning brightened, I had Dad all to myself.
Tom Schaefer is a former reporter, editor and columnist for The Wichita Eagle.
