CONGRATULATIONS!

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 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.

To the winners of the 18th Annual Ethics in Business Awards, presented by the Rotary Club of Golden, the Golden Civic Foundation, the Greater Golden Chamber of Commerce, and the Jefferson Economic Development Corporation

In the For-profit category Hike Doggie In the Not-for-profit category Community First Foundation

And Congratulations also to the other nominees

For-profit

96.9 the Cloud • Ball Corporation • Buffalo Rose • Colorado Sun

Evolution Veterinary Specialists • Lakeside Insurance

Laurel Property Services • OnTap Credit Union • Sirona Physical Therapy

Unite Fitness • Virtuosity Dance

Not-for-profit

BgoldN • B.I.O.N.I.C. • Colorado Mountain Club • Faithfully K9

Friendship Bridge • Golden Non-profit Leadership Roundtable

Golden Visitors & Information Center • Habitat for Humanity of Colorado

Miners Alley Playhouse • ARC Thrift Stores

AND ALSO A SINCERE “THANK YOU!” TO THE MANY SPONSORS OF THE 2023 ETHICS IN BUSINESS AWARDS PROGRAM.

Platinum Sponsors

Colorado School of Mines • Confluence Companies

Gold Sponsor Colorado Community Media

Silver Sponsors

Applewood Plumbing, Heating and Electric • Bob and Dru Short City of Golden • First Bank • Jeffco Public Schools

Jefferson Center • W E O’Neil

Bronze Sponsors

Bandimere Speedway//Independent Financial

Christa Smith-My Home Team//Golden Chamber

Community First Foundation • DD Rockwell, Realtor

Developmental Disabilities Resource Center • Golden Civic Foundation

Hebert Investments • Lutheran Medical Center-Intermountain Health

Red Rocks Community College Foundation

Sheraton Denver West • TaxOps

Donors

Essence Laser & Wellness • Golden Group Real Estate

Golden Real Estate • Laurel Property Services

Skyline Property Management

FINALLY, THANKS ALSO TO THE MANY MEMBERS OF OUR COMMUNITY THAT ACTIVELY SUPPORTED THIS YEAR’S ETHICS IN BUSINESS AWARDS PROGRAM!

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. 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. 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.

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?”

“Well sir, it’s seven cents for the daily paper and twenty- ve cents for the Sunday.”

“Okay,” he said as he nodded his head. He stuck his hand inside his trouser pocket and shook it. I could hear change jingling in it. It drew my attention. My eyes focused on it. He smiled mischievously. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay you sixty-seven cents, or you can have all the coins in my pocket. If it is less than sixty-seven cents, you lose. If more, you win. Wadda ya say?”

I pursed my mouth as I stared at his pocket with the jingling coins. My eyes lit up in anticipation, and I drooled as I imagined hitting the jackpot. I regained my resolve, looked him squarely in his eye, and sti ened my jaw.

“Okay. I’ll take what you have in your pocket.”

He grinned widely and pulled out the change. It was a handful.

“Smart kid, Hold out your hand.”

I cupped both eagerly as he dropped a cache of nickels, dimes, and quarters, into them. “You’ll go far,” he laughed as he did. Later, I gured it was well over three dollars since I kept a running total in my head about the amount of tips I collected.

Tips were, like they are for many service workers today, the lifeblood of my income. at was compounded at Christmas. Almost everyone gave me a card with a buck or two in it. A few times I’d hit the jackpot with a ve-dollar bill. Most of it went into my rst savings account my mother helped me open at the Pittsburgh National Bank branch in the Miracle Mile Shopping Center. I still remember handing my earnings to Mrs. Williams, the teller with white hair and big glasses. She always would tell me how proud she was of me as she entered the amount into my savings account booklet.

Not all of my customers were engaging. In fact, there were a few I never met. I just knew they got the newspaper and would faithfully leave what they owed me, most often with a tip, in an envelope inside their storm door or paperbox. At rst I thought it was creepy, but I came to understand that some people were very private or mysteriously reclusive, and that was okay.

I had one customer, though, who taught me what a deadbeat was. Mrs. “Bond” got the Sunday paper only. When I took over the route, she would leave me a dollar—no tip—for a month’s payment inside the door. One month the money wasn’t there. I gave it a couple of weeks, but still no money. e next Sunday, early in the morning, I knocked on her door. No answer. I left the paper but decided to give her one more chance. e following Sunday, I knocked again. Still no answer. at time I had written a note, which I left with the paper, saying she was two months behind and that I needed two dollars the following Sunday. at next Sunday, no money, so I left no paper. Nor did I deliver one for the next couple of weeks.

Finally, my route manager, John, asked me why I wasn’t delivering her a paper. Apparently, she called and complained. I explained why. He said I had to deliver her a paper. I said I wouldn’t until she paid up. I told him it wasn’t right or fair and that I had given her several chances. We were at a standstill, but I stood my ground. It was an early lesson in having the courage to stand up for my principles. Finally, he agreed to give me credit for the money she owed. I started delivering to her again on the condition that she paid me on time. For the rest of the time I had the route, the money was inside the door.

When I muse about those days, many images come to mind that at the time seemed eeting or incidental. A rich one is heading out shortly after dawn on a summer Sunday morning with fog slightly layered over the neighborhood, sloshing through dewy grass, and bushwacking between trees and shrubs as webs strung through the night brushed across my face. I can still smell the sweetness and hear the stillness. As a nascent teenager, I wasn’t conscious about morning energies, but I now realize that I was already intuiting something profound.

I picture that big-eared kid with stringy brown hair wearing cuto jeans for shorts, a T-shirt, and dirty white canvas sneakers with tapedtogether eyeglasses sitting crookedly atop his nose trooping along with an

SEE FABYANIC, P31