Mornings and Newspapers
I really love mornings. I usually get up pretty early and I love being awake when it feels like no one else is. Quiet, early mornings are my time to wake up, reset my intentions, check in on that silly, overactive mind, take a few deep breaths, listen to a little Mozart (actually a lot of Haydn lately), do my gratitude list and face the day. Oh, and drink a fair amount of coffee.
I blame this on the Des Moines Register paper route I got when I was eleven. The Register was Iowa’s newspaper of record, and, back in the 1970’s, during my association, was considered a pretty good small market newspaper—like the Miami Herald or the Sacramento Bee. The Sports section was peach-colored and I spent many mornings reading it backwards across the table from my dad. The other newspaper in town was the Iowa City Press-Citizen. I worked in the P-C circulation department throughout high school and college. If you called to complain that your Press-Citizen had not arrived by 5 pm between 1977 and 1982 there is a decent chance you talked to me. If you did, I hope you got your paper.
I’m not sure how I learned of the opportunity. But the Register’s District Manager, a Mr. Gillespie, came to the house to meet me and my parents. He explained how things would work, including that I was an “independent contractor,” and would be responsible for paying the Des Moines Register the wholesale rate for my roughly 36 daily and 52 Sunday newspapers. It was up to me to collect from my customers, but my Des Moines Register bill had to be paid at Mr. Gillespie’s home office every other Saturday morning. The Des Moines Register was a morning newspaper and Mr. Gillespie emphasized that everyone had to have their newspaper by 6:30 am! I got issued a really cool bag: yellow, with a fluorescent orange shoulder-strap (safety first!) and the Des Moines Register logo on the side. Very cool and I was very proud—and getting paid in cash! I think I nettted right around a dollar per subscriber per month, so this eleven year old was walking around with $40 a month in highly discretionary income. A dangerous man with a little money in his pocket.
We lived in a two bedroom house with a landing separating the room I shared with my brother from my parent’s room. I set my alarm for 5:30 am but I almost always popped awake around 5:27 or 5:28 and quietly turned it off so it wouldn’t wake my brother. I’d slide out of bed and into the hallway, carefully closing the bedroom door and then dressing on the landing in the dark, noiselessly putting on the clothes I’d laid out the night before. Carefully down the creaky stairs, on with shoes and coat, collect my bag and out the door. It was usually about 5:36 when I started walking up to where they left the bundle of papers and the start of my route (it may have been the Hoffman’s on Highland Drive).
A popular misconception is the bicycle-borne paper carrier. I think there is really no such thing (I have similar beliefs regarding the existence of cow-tipping). Putting aside how difficult it is to maintain balance while riding a Schwinn Sting-Ray Three Speed (with the yellow banana seat and chrome stick shift), carrying a bag full of newspapers and trying to steer, retrieve papers from the bag and throw? No, don’t see that. Also, my customers wanted their newspapers in their mailboxes or the mail slot or between the screen and front door. Winging papers onto lawns from moving bikes was just not the Des Moines Register way.
I loved getting up early. It made me feel responsible and mature, but mostly it made me feel free. There was no one watching, no one really up and I loved the feeling of moving through the darkness or early light almost unseen. I was free to daydream or sing to myself or play imaginary games and there was no one to observe or raise an eye. The only customer I saw on a regular basis was Dean Vernon from the law school. He lived in a blue ranch house on Koser Avenue and was always sitting at the kitchen table, only one small light on in the house, drinking coffee and waiting on me to bring the paper. I put the paper through a slot in the kitchen door and would try to balance it part way through so he wouldn’t have to bend down and pick it up from the floor. I think he appreciated this. He’d give me a nod most mornings and he was one of the few who tipped this eleven year old independent contractor/paperboy.
There were days when the experience was a bit less idyllic. Like when it rained or when it was below zero or when there was a ton of snow making it tough to walk between the houses. No matter, I loved delivering the Des Moines Register. I loved the bag and I loved the responsibility. I loved the idea of people being able to count on me. Much later, when I had kids of my own, I also had a couple of Labrador retrievers. Kayla decided it was her job to pick up the newspaper from the bottom of the driveway and bring it up to the house. She was never happier; her tail proud and sassy as she carefully carried the newspaper in her mouth and dropped it at the back door. No wonder we were close.
I stopped delivering the paper when I went to Junior High, but I kept getting up early. When things got really dark for me, when I thought there just wasn’t going to be a path out for me, that was the only time in my life that I dreaded the morning. Waking up was simply a heart-stabbing reminder of how empty and meaningless I had let my life become and the only thing that really mattered was being at the Commissary at 8am when it opened.
I joke, but am pretty sure the Des Moines Register permanently impaired my ability to sleep in. I’m glad. Those early, early mornings taught me about responsibility, the joy of solitude, freedom, independence and the importance of facing every day with a sense of purpose and excitement. Mornings are a dark, beautiful cathedral for me and I know that paper boy’s perspective on the dark is a big part of my sobriety.
Thanks for letting me share.