It was a hand-me-down paper route for eighteen years, starting with my oldest brother and ending with the youngest.
My parents viewed the job as a safe way to learn responsibility. When I got my turn at age 11, I was just happy to earn money for books and art supplies. With a new bike I had gotten for my birthday, I was ready to go.
Back then, Lancaster Newspaper published a morning and afternoon edition, the Lancaster Intelligencer Journal and Lancaster New Era, respectively. My older brothers delivered the early morning edition but my parents didn’t want their daughters biking around at 5 a.m., so I only did the afternoon route.
At about 2 p.m. each day, Lancaster Newspapers would drop off the papers at our front gate. The bundle of papers included a printout listing any changes in the route. After coming home from school and eating pretzels and Velveeta, it was time to starting folding the papers.
We kept the rubber bands in a Tony the Tiger cookie jar. The skinny papers on Saturdays and Mondays folded into sleek trifolds, as satisfying as origami. The bulky mid-week papers threatened to burst out of their rubber bands.
The Thanksgiving Day newspapers with Black Friday ads were the thickest of all. As I lugged those logs along, I bitterly grumbled about the stupidity of advertising. Twenty years later, when I help plan Black Friday ads at work, I feel guilty.
In bad weather, we had to bag the papers— no one wanted a gray soggy newspaper dissolving on their doormat.
To carry the papers, I first tried wearing the large delivery bag that my older brothers wore, with huge pockets front and back. But I was too small for the one-size-fits-all, so I started using a box on the back of my bicycle instead. Several sturdy cardboard boxes melted away in the rain until I finally found a plastic crate that lasted for years.
The 40-odd newspapers loaded, I pushed down on the pedals and rolled out the drive. Down the back road, to the housing development, and up to Main Street. Or Main Street first, the back road last. My strategy shifted based my mood, the thickness of the papers (heavier newspapers demanded a stop at the house for a second load), and the weather.
Pounding rain, snow days, and sidewalks slick with ice— we had to deliver the newspapers anyway. If the snow banks were too high to safely bike, other family members would help do the route on foot.
Once, dime-sized hailstones started falling when I was on the route and I huddled under a pathetic little portico for protection. The homeowners invited me inside until the hail ceased.
I remember rain the most. My glasses blurry with raindrops. Cold puddles soaking sneakers. Removing my soggy gloves because they were useless. My hands chapped and red. Mom bought Corn Huskers lotion for me, and in the evenings, I coated the backs of my hands with the cool, clear gel.
On roasting summer days, I wore cotton dresses and flip-flops. My bike helmet was clunky and sweat rolled down my neck.
Often I biked on the sidewalks to save time, bouncing over cracks and tree roots. Our family had a reputation to protect: we didn’t just toss the paper on the drive. We delivered right to the door of the customer’s choice, pedaling over yards if necessary.
Of course, I made mistakes. I didn’t have enough papers at the end of my route and realized I had delivered a newspaper to the wrong house. Worse yet, was having an extra paper— that meant I had missed a customer.
A dog bit me only once but that was a story I told on another blogpost.
Our family gave up the paper route in 2006. The New Era and the Intelligencer Journal are now one skinny morning newspaper with the sad name of LNP. Even the Thanksgiving papers are much smaller than they once were.
Tony the Tiger went home with a drywaller who was working in our house and requested the cookie jar for his son, who collected Tony the Tiger. Maybe the jar still stinks of rubber bands.
As I drive to the office these days, I’m glad my paper route years are behind me, especially in December. But before I leave, there’s usually time for a cup of coffee— and the skinny newspaper.
A walk down memory lane ! I had forgotten about Tony the Tiger .😀
Remember the pile of newspapers on the kitchen floor every afternoon? 😉
I had forgotten about Tony the Tiger too.
Thanksgiving papers were real monsters. I remember being able to only get 6 or 8 in the carrier bag and having to unload from the back and not just the front, otherwise the bag would ride up and try to choke you.
Too bad paper routes are a thing of the past. That would be a great first-job for my boys.
Your boys might be glad paper routes are history if they hear about the Thanksgiving papers!