VOICES Paperboy

Editor’s note: “Paperboy” is a selection from Jerry Fabyanic’s forthcoming memoir, “Uphill into the Wind: Seizing the Day and Finding Meaning in the Ordinary.” e work will be in essay and short story format, the topics of which drawn from Jerry’s life experiences.

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” So goes the uno cial motto of the United States Postal Service. e line is taken from the Greek historian, Herodotus, who wrote those words in e Persian Wars in reference to the Persians’ system of mail delivery. Regardless, kudos to mail deliverers from the ancient Persians and our Pony Express to today’s workers. But postal workers take a backseat to paperboys and papergirls, the gone-with-the-ages McJob that was the entryway into the workforce for a few boys and fewer girls long before the golden arches were conceived. It’s a relic of Americana’s days of yore.

Delivering newspapers seven days a week in rain, snow or sunshine was more than a way to earn a few coins for a boy to buy candy, pop and popsicles. It was an interactive, on-the-job primer for learning and developing practical life skills. Being a paperboy was not much di erent from apprenticeships boys like the young Benjamin Franklin underwent.

I was a paperboy twice, the rst time at the age of nine. By the fourth grade, I was learning aspects of quality service and adopting values I hold to this day. Responsibility and punctuality were among them. When in the classroom, I tried to instill those values into my students. I would tell them, “Your job is to be on time and do your work as best you can.” To this day, I stress whenever I might be late for an engagement. I’d rather show up thirty minutes early than be ve minutes late.

At rst, I was an assistant — apprentice — of sorts to my older brother, Rich. He delivered papers to about two-thirds, the more spread out portion, of the route. My responsibility was to deliver the papers to neighbors closer to home. Still, it

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JERRY FABYANIC

was quite a chore for a skinny boy. e o -white canvas paper sack with a ame-orange shoulder strap nearly scraped the ground when I hoisted it onto my shoulder. And it caused other problems. During the summer months, I wore shorts, and the sack would rub irritatingly against my shin. And in the winter, it presented a di erent challenge if it snowed. To problem solve, I’d pull the strap over my head to my left shoulder so it would hang on my right. But on days when the edition was bulkier, even the left-shoulder solution didn’t resolve the issue. en, I simply hoisted and toted the sack until the load lightened.

One of the rst things I intuitively learned was the importance of getting to know your clientele. As a nine-year-old, I did not have an understanding of such a lofty business practice. But I quickly discovered which were more lighthearted and friendly types and which were grumpy or fussy. at was critical because my total income, given that I earned only a penny and a half for each daily paper and ve cents for the Sunday paper, was heavily dependent on tips.

With coaching from Rich, I developed good business practices. Like being punctual, keeping the newspaper dry, and putting it in a safe location like inside a storm door or a milk box. (Remember those?) e former one — opening the storm door and tossing the newspaper inside — got me into scrapes with several furry, four-pawed creatures.

e worst one was with Doh-Doh.

Doh-Doh was my friend Pete’s family pet. He, not Pete, was a rat terrier. And he was mean. He’s the only dog I was bitten by. It happened right after I pulled the storm door open as I had many times before.

e little demon was lying in wait. He sprang. Four years later when I had the paper route to myself, the scenario repeated itself. Except that

LINDA SHAPLEY Publisher lshapley@coloradocommunitymedia.com

MICHAEL DE YOANNA Editor-in-Chief michael@coloradocommunitymedia.com

LINDSAY NICOLETTI Operations/ Circulation Manager lnicoletti@coloradocommunitymedia.com

DONNA REARDON Marketing Consultant dreardon@coloradocommunitymedia.com time, I got mild revenge. We both had aged, but he in dog years and I boy years. I had gotten bigger and stronger and he was declining. One afternoon, he was lying listlessly by the door when I pulled it open. He raised his head in half-hearted recognition, and the anger I had felt resurfaced. I stared at him for a second then tossed the paper nearly on top of him. I suppose I should feel guilty for or regret doing it. But I don’t.

I experienced a few tense situations with bigger dogs including a German shepherd, collie and Doberman pinscher. But while they got raucous, I never felt threatened by them. After a while, the German shepherd and collie got used to me. ey’d grouse, but mainly to remind me who was in charge. Not so much with the Doberman pinscher. I would tread lightly when I entered his yard. He never was loose, so that wasn’t a problem. But he would sometimes be lying languidly inside the porch gate. When he saw me, he would rise up on all fours and, with his head overhanging the gate and slobber running from his jowls, let me know in no uncertain terms he wasn’t happy I intruded into his yard. When that happened, the newspaper didn’t get onto the porch.

Being a paperboy opened a new world for me in terms of not only getting to know people but also about people. For the most part, my customers were wonderful and kind. But that commonality ended when it came to their quirks and personalities. Some like Mrs. Frye, whose yard was fenced to keep her dogs contained, were engaging. She had a paperbox at the gate into which I would slide her newspaper. On collection day, I would stand at the gate and call, “Mrs. Frye!” She would soon tootle out, often in her slippers, and hand me the week’s payment along with a tip. I can still picture her in her bright owery-print house dresses and red hair pulled back in a bun. She was a chatterer. I loved it, and it taught me another skill: how to talk con dently with an adult.

Mr. Mori was one of my favorites. Each summer he grew enormous tomato plants in his backyard garden.

KRISTEN FIORE West Metro Editor kfiore@coloradocommunitymedia.com

DEB HURLEY BROBST Community Editor dbrobst@coloradocommunitymedia.com

RUTH DANIELS Classified Sales rdaniels@coloradocommunitymedia.com en there was Mr. Stankiewicz. I met him only once because his wife had always paid me. When he answered the door, he had a serious look on his face.

When the tomatoes were ripening, I would stu a salt shaker in my pocket because he was routinely working in the garden when I showed up. And when he saw me coming, he’d pick a big juicy one just for me. After delivering to a dozen houses after Mr. Mori’s, I would stop at the neighborhood grocery store run by Mr. “Happy” Yeager and snag a bottle of Pepsi to wash down the salt. After dropping a nickel into the pop machine’s money slot, I would sh one out and pop the top o with the opener attached to the cooler. To this day, there’s still nothing like a salted juicy tomato chased by an icecold Pepsi, albeit zero sugar now. Mrs. Hartsfeld was one of my sweetest customers. One snowy Friday when I was collecting, she was surprised to see me with no boots and wearing ratty cotton gloves. I explained to her the boots I inherited from my older brothers had holes in the heels so were not very e ective for keeping snow out and it was pointless to buy another pair because I would outgrow them within a year. But the primary truth, which I didn’t tell her, was that we couldn’t a ord them. So I just tripled-layered my socks, which helped keep my feet fairly warm and dry until I got through my route. As for the gloves, they did okay. My hands had toughened from making and heaving snowballs with bare hands. But the next week when I showed up to collect, she had a pair of new gloves for me.

“What do you want?” he asked gru y as he towered over me. His voice and demeanor were intimidating. “I’m collecting for the newspaper,” I shyly answered.

“Newspaper, huh. Which one?”

“ e Pittsburgh Press, sir.”

“Press, huh. How much is it?”

I felt my voice quivering. “Sixtyseven cents, sir.”

“ at seems like a lot. Why is it so much?”

SEE PAPERBOY, P10

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