Speedy Delivery

I alluded to this entry in my last blog. This is a long blog and I haven’t scratched the surface. So get comfortable and expect a sequel to this one.

My dear wife, Cynthia, loves to tease that I grew up in the “rich” area of our LDS stake back home in southern California (For you uninformed readers, Cynthia and I grew up in the same LDS stake—three years apart in high school, separate school districts, yada yada yada—but didn’t know each other). If you define “rich” by the standard of rolling hills then we were RICH. Cynthia grew up in Chino—the lowlands—where it was mainly dairy farms; while I grew up in Diamond Bar—the hills—where they grazed livestock. The name Diamond Bar comes from the name of the ranch that made up a large part of the city at one time. Sorry I digress.

Where was I? Oh. Hills. My home was situated on a hill. My backyard had a slope that fell approximately 400 feet down to the 57 Freeway shortly before it merges with the 60 Freeway to create one of the most masterfully designed traffic jams ever engineered by the geniuses of CalTrans.

I cannot recall how I became a newspaper deliverer, but at the ripe old age of 10 ½ I had a paper route. I believe I had approximately 25 subscribers for the Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper The Progress Bulletin. The Progress Bulletin was the perfect newspaper for young paperboys because it was an afternoon paper during the week and a morning paper on weekends. So every day after school I folded my papers, loaded them onto the handlebar bags, and hopped on my bike.

This was 1982 and I had a maroon bicycle—the one-speed kind with BMX handlebars and a banana seat. I think it had a logo on the frame that said something like Firefox. It was past its prime in 1982, so I was the laughing stock with a banana seat. This was a bad 70’s flashback that I could never shake; as you will see.

Let me describe my paper route for you. I would coast down the hill from my house to the beginning of my delivery route. Then climb up a hill throwing papers to the houses that subscribed. I had a subscriber at the end of this street so I had to always go to the top of this hill. Next, turn around and go down the hill, cross a street, deliver some more papers on my downward course. Hang a left and climb up a small hill, delivering papers, hang a left, then another left, and go down the small hill on a street parallel to the one I went up. That finished my paper delivery and then all I had to do was climb up the hill back to my house. The round trip probably encompassed 1 ½ miles of road.

I had this paper route for 3 years. In those 3 years I was able to acquire two additional routes which were divided up to my younger sister and younger brother as they got old enough to deliver papers. These other routes were relatively flat so they got to coast down the hills, deliver their papers, and simply climb back up the hill once. Lucky dogs.

Never once did I wear a helmet or other protective gear. Don’t judge my parents for their apparent disregard for my safety nor for the possible child labor law violations associated with this work. We were responsible kids who by the grace of You Know Who (Not “He Who Must Not Be Named” all you Potter freaks!) were spared countless times from being hit by cars!!

After three years of this paper route my parents moved us across town. The primary reasons for our move were to get a bigger house and to get into the better school district. So we moved the summer after I finished Lorbeer Junior High School. By Divine intervention, The Progress Bulletin, followed us. Not long after moving a paper route became available and as a high school freshman with little social ties to a new neighborhood, I took it. I also played tenor saxophone for the high school band so right away you can label me a social outcast because of my second-class citizenship as a ‘band geek’.

Now this bigger house was in the MEGA-RICH part of town as defined previously by the amount and steepness of its hills. This paper route included a hill that quite literally was no less than a 45-degree slope along with the climbing up and down of the other streets for delivery. This hill was so steep that our Ford Econoline van would not make it up the hill at faster than 5 mph (Luckily the even steeper hill was never part of our routes). The kicker was a home with a 100-yard uphill driveway. See The Progress Bulletin was a porch-delivered newspaper. This was top-notch service. Many subscribers can attest they knew when the paper was delivered because the newspaper slammed into their screen door in an intrusive “Here’s your paper” greeting.

Providence continued to shine on me and my siblings. In short order, two additional paper routes came open in our neighborhood. So now we had three routes for three kids. Another sister eventually was added to the mix, but based on the amount of whining and complaining she constantly expressed this was definitely forced labor for her. As for me and my other brother and sister we were too stupid to know any better. Each of these routes had plenty of hills to climb. Streets named Kiowa Crest, Morning Canyon, Leaning Pine, and Cliffbranch just sounds steep don’t they?

By this time, I had moved up to my dad’s old ten-speed bike. My dad and I devised a way to place a particleboard slab on the bike rack and thus carry a duffle bag full of newspapers. Instead of having them in front of me on the handlebars, they were behind me on the bike rack. This kept me from getting the newspaper bags caught in the front spokes of the bike—a very dangerous and real problem when zooming down these steep hills. As a result of this “move up” my brother inherited the maroon bike. My sister had a blue bike also with banana seat. My brother got a scooter for Christmas one year. You remember when that craze came around the first time in about 1985. He opted to deliver his papers by scooter rather than have to ride the maroon monstrosity.

One thing you will learn about my family is that nothing gets thrown away. When my parents relocated to Chicago 5 years ago the moving van stopped here in Utah to drop off a piano, a coffin-style freezer, assorted other things, AND my maroon bike! Nearly 20 years after its original purchase this curse of a bike was again in my garage. It was quickly sent to Deseret Industries along with the tenor saxophone! Maybe someone appreciates it now that the 70’s styles have become retro chic. Somehow I doubt banana seats ever became cool again.

I later delivered my newspapers mainly by car once I had my driver’s license. This was much to the thrill of my siblings who also no longer were required to ride their banana-seated bicycles throughout the neighborhood.

What did I gain from all of this? Well I can recall a very uncomfortable discussion in Business Law class that will sum up the benefits of this paper route. Cynthia and I were dating and we had this class together along with two of my high school friends. It was the spring of 1994 and I was wearing knee-length shorts that day (in accordance with BYU dress-code policy—thank you very much Allison!). As we were sitting listening to the lecture out of nowhere my friend Scott turns to me and observes “Paul, you have very rugged legs.” Followed by a very long pause as I tried to fathom where such a remark had come from. “Thanks” was all I uttered and rather dumbly at that. It was several years later before Scott officially “outted” himself.

So what was the benefit of these paper routes? From the lips of a gay man—I have rugged legs.