Newspapers have been in my life for as long as I can remember. And although my memory isn’t quite what it used to be, I can still recall reading the Era’s comics and sports pages as a kid growing up in downtown Rixford.

I can’t say I read the news, per se (and I can’t say if any of it was “fake” news), but Dick Tracy, Tim Tyler, the Phantom and others, along with the baseball box scores and standings, provided me entertainment and information I couldn’t get from our ONE television channel.

In addition to my perusing the baseball news, I spent a “few” hours of my youth playing ball — in the schoolyard, backyard, neighbor’s yard, barnyard … and like most “future major leaguers” I started collecting baseball cards. At a nickel a pack, however, I invariably ran out of money before I would get my favorite player of the week. To keep me out of the red, out of Dad’s pockets and out of Mom’s hair, it was suggested that I get a job.

After looking “job” up in our 200-pound Britannica dictionary, I agreed, deciding the good (money) outweighed the bad (work). Thus, in the summer of ’60, just shy of the required 12 years old, I began my working days as a Bradford Era paperboy. (“Carrier” back then was a type of pigeon.)

Three of us had the responsibility of providing Rixfokrdians their morning paper. And, with John and Gary established paperboys, they had the “business district” and the more populated routes, leaving me the outer edges of the western “suburbs.” Undaunted, I waited that first morning for the Stroehmann bread man to drop our papers off at Andersons’ store. I soon loaded my first delivery into my new, stiff, canvas Bradford Era shoulder bag. A career began.

Catching a ride (with my dad, a neighbor, anyone going toward Bradford) to the foot of Summit was necessary, for I was certain that walking both ways would be a Sisyphean task, finishing just as the bread truck arrived with the next morning’s papers. (Actually, it was barely a mile; but a long mile to an 11-year-old newbie.)

Familiarizing myself with the proper doors in which to place the papers — we didn’t throw them and we didn’t leave them at the roadside — took a couple weeks and before I could say “Jack Robinson” (1956 Topps card no. 30), my first payday was in sight. All I had to do was “collect” — visit each house, evening or weekend, and, if they’re home, and if they have the money (and in some cases, if they want to part with it), ask for $1.82. That was for 26 days at 7 cents a paper.

After collecting from everyone, buying and mailing a money order to the Era, I was rich! “Rich” meaning I was able to keep 2 cents for every paper delivered, resulting in a monthly salary of $13. During the winter months, especially, it was a hard-earned $13.

Of course, Christmas time meant gifts — candy, mittens, extra money and, from Mr. Pinchfist, an apple. A small apple. A crab apple, methinks.

Diversifying my portfolio, I incorporated muskrat trapping into my business ventures, occasionally carrying a ’rat or two in my now not-so-new canvas bag. A buck or two per hide was easy money, and I don’t recall any customer complaints about soggy sports sections or wet want ads.

Another unexpected bonus was when I was able to help “bring home the bacon.” I had the tendency to throw just about anything resembling a baseball whenever possible, and stray stones and the paper route afforded me plenty of time to keep my pitching arm limber. Signs, trees and other inanimate objects were my usual targets, but occasionally a bird or other creature would be my “catcher.”

Well, when this rabbit was in a crouch (and I swear put down one toe), I had to oblige. A fastball (fastrock?) from my right arm was a strike and he was more than out. Surprised (and a little saddened), I could find no better option than fried rabbit for dinner that night.

On a more serious note, being a paperboy was not only an exercise in, well, exercise, but it taught me my first lessons in responsibility, dependability and punctuality. And, although it didn’t make me rich, it did make me realize and appreciate the relationship of money and work. I’m certainly not rich now, money wise, but my life is rich — rich with thoughts and memories of a life when times were simpler, people were happier and The Bradford Era was 7 cents a copy.          

(Miller is the Era’s Otto Township correspondent. He can be reached at jmakalefty@yahoo.com)