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The Newspaper Mystique

M

y mornings started with a "thud."
Every weekday morning, at about 5, I was
awakened by the faint sounds of a delivery truck,
its driver grinding through the manual gears as the vehicle's
engine shifted from low-to-high-to-low whine ... like a bar
mitzvah boy's voice cracking during
his haftorah. Minute by minute, the
sound became louder and louder.
Then, the "thud."
No alarm clock necessary.
Slowly pulling on a pair of trousers,
shirt and sneakers, I'd stumble down
the stairs of our house, pass through
the already well-lit living room and
into the kitchen. The "thud" would
wake up my father, too. He was always
quicker to get going, back in those
days. The kettle was already whis-
tling and the toast — he loved bread
— was on the plate.
While I was slathering the bread with peanut butter and
jelly, topping it with
American cheese and
drinking my father's hot
cc vasser milk" concoction
(think of coffee without the
coffee), he quietly walked
to the curb of our house
and retrieved the cause
of the "thud" — a bundle
of New Haven (Conn.)
Journal-Couriers.
With nutrients and hot
water in my body, I headed
out the door to the garage
and retrieved my red
Schwinn, with its empty
metal baskets flanking the
rear gearbox and a larger
basket secured between the
handlebars. By the time I
wheeled my bicycle to the
front door, my father had
peeled away newspaper
after newspaper, securing each with a rubber band extracted
from a box cradled between his legs.
We stuffed these newspapers into the baskets, and I was on
my way. I was 12.

on Central Avenue wanted the newspaper placed inside their
front porch.
The image of the newspaper boy flinging papers left and
right as he flies down the sidewalk is just that — an image.
In reality, being a newspaper carrier was about meeting
the needs of the customer with the hope that at Christmas/
Chanukah time, your diligence would be appreciated.
It usually was. The standard tip was $1 for a year's worth of
excellent service. Some on my route would include a card and
a note. I still remember who never tipped, regardless of their
special and sometimes nearly impossible requests.
Every Friday, collection day, brought special and life-
shaping interactions. Fredrick G. Schull educated me about
gold- and silver-backed dollars (like I really cared) and
fancied himself as a modern-day William Jennings Bryan.
Mr. Murphy was a Democratic ward boss who happened to
have the coolest job — he was a real (not Good-and-Plenty)
engineer for the New Haven Railroad. It was on his front steps
where I started to learn about politics and GE locomotives.
And Mr. Sisk, the funeral home director, always had a white
shirt and tie when he answered the door, every hair on his
balding head in place. I
wanted to ask him about
what a real Irish wake
was like, but didn't have
the courage.

In reality, being a
newspaper carrier was
about meeting the
needs of the customer
with the hope that at
Christmas/Chanukah
time, your diligence
would be appreciated.

Times Long Past
This was my first real job (I had sold cards of buttons from
my father's dry goods store, door to door, when I was 7,
but that doesn't really count). I had 54 customers who were
depending on me to bring them their newspaper before 7 a.m.
No sick days, no sleep-in days and certainly no opportunity to
miss any collection days.
Boy, some of those customers were finicky. There was
Johnny Murphy on Westwood Road who wanted the newspa-
per between the screen door and front door. There were the
Goldmans on Cleveland Road, who wanted the newspaper in
a special container alongside their back door. The Horwiches

Expert

Business Sense
There was one constant.
The newspaper had to be
delivered to every house
on the route before 7
a.m. — every weekday.
On the rare occasions
when I was late, the
phone would ring at the
newspaper circulation
office and, in some cases,
at my home.
"Did you forget me?"
"When can I have it
— I need it now."
"I don't want a credit
on my bill ... I want my

newspaper now!"
As I absorb the decision of the Detroit Free Press and Detroit
News to scale back on daily home delivery, I think to a time,
40 years ago, when business and customer service experi-
ences were learned that have lasted a lifetime ... and when
it was unthinkable for any newspaper reader, or newspaper
publisher, to miss a day of home delivery.
Heck, 30 minutes late was unthinkable.
My, how times change. CI

0 :
I— •
N

Has a home-delivered daily newspaper
affected your morning ritual?

Z z
0 0
a. 0 -

Will you go online or to a news box to
seek out the morning news?

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Amiee

Wireless
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Email Questions to:

asktheexpertz@wirelesstoyz.com

and visit the nearest
location at:

Amiee Wadie
12 Mile & Northwestern
248.945.0090

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December 25 a 2008

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