Nowadays, “newspapers” are read on iPads. Around sixty years ago, for about four years, I delivered actual newspapers door to door.

My territory was on the western edge of Roseville. Basically east of Highway 280, south of Highway 36, west of Cleveland and north of Midland Hills Golf course. Looking back, I think the lessons learned were probably worth a lot more than the money earned.

The Sheldon’s had a big Saint Bernard. Every time I delivered the paper he would jump up on his hind legs, his front paws against the window and rattle the window with his big deep bark. He was friendly, fun and not at all scary.

One hot summer day the window was open. When I walked up to put the paper in the door, he was across the room and I had startled him. He came running hard, tail wagging, barking, right through the screen on the window, knocked me down and started to lick my face. Mrs Sheldon was mortified assuming I was being mauled. He just wanted to say hi.

Miss Holste, was younger than I am now but back then I thought of her as elderly. On my first day delivering to her she let me know precisely how she wanted her paper delivered. Do not cross over the grass, walk up the long driveway, go into the porch, put the paper on the bench so she does not have to bend over and pick it up. Please don’t walk on the lawn after delivering the paper. I did as she asked. She paid on time, we never really interacted much.

When I got into high school, I learned Miss Holste worked in the school library. Periodically we would nod in recognition, but I do not think we ever actually talked.

About a month before I was to graduate I got a note saying if I don’t return a book, I will not be allowed to graduate. I did not have the book, and I did not know what to do so I did what kids like me do, nothing.

About a week before graduation, I got called out of a class and told to see Miss Holste in the library. She asked if I had the book. I said no. She looked me square in the eyes then tore up the piece of paper she was holding and said don’t worry about it, you were a good paperboy.

Every two weeks, I would go to each of my customers and collect. There were always a couple customers who were on vacation or who would ask if I would come at the end of the week after they got paid.

Along my route lived some wealthy people who were always the worst to collect from. In hindsight, they were probably just very busy people. When I finally connected with them, a couple of them would complain bitterly and threaten not to pay saying they did not get a paper or that the paper was not delivered properly. They would eventually pay but often several weeks late.

Let me just say this. If you habitually try to screw with a young boy by not paying in a timely manner and complaining about it when you do pay, come Halloween, you should not be surprised that your house was randomly egged and your pumpkins smashed.

On one occasion, I delivered the paper the morning after Halloween, the police were there getting hollered at for not properly protecting the good citizens of Roseville. I just delivered the paper and went to the next house.

The newspapers were delivered to the northeast corner of the intersection of Highway 280 and County Road B. From my house the quickest way there was to walk over a large hill, which was the fairway of the second hole of Midland Hills golf course. Looking northwest across the intersection up another hill, is Sunset Memorial Cemetery.

It is Sunday Easter Morning. The Sunday Papers came in two bundles. One was news and the other was everything else. I’m up before dawn, at the intersection putting the “everything else section” into the “news section” and then putting it into my paper delivery bag. There were no cars around, no people around, it was quiet and sort of peaceful.

At exactly dawn, as clear as a bell, several trumpets sounded followed by a very large and loud choir singing the “Hallelujah Chorus,” from George Frideric Handel’s Messiah. It was like a sound from heaven. Stunning. Moving. I assume there was a religious service at the cemetery three blocks away. From where I stood it sounded like they were right in front of me. It still gives me the chills just thinking about it.

Being a paperboy was not easy. You deliver every day. In Minnesota, it gets hot, cold, rainy, snowy, windy, humid and like a postman, it doesn’t matter, you were expected to deliver the paper every day, on time. On the plus side, unlike most of my friends that age, I had spending money. I bought a really cool, purple, Schwinn Varsity ten speed bike with my own money.

Delivering papers day after day, month after month you come to see and understand a certain reality about the people. On a very cold, blustery winter day, some people will insist you come in to warm up before continuing your route, some will complain you are late but most people do neither.

On any given day, over the length of your route you might well hear people shouting in anger at each other and other people being joyous and happy. Mostly though day in and day out people are friendly but are just going about their day doing the best they can to do the best they can.

As a paperboy, I was a kid who had interacted with doctors, lawyers, mechanics, teachers, librarians, nurses, dentists, professors, a bank president, an accountant, several small business owners and like fifty other adults who lived around where I grew up.

The closer you look the more you see.