Delivering the Telegram- Main South style, 1964
( framed by the words of Stanley
Kunitz.)
Word count: 1,710
Somehow I am
associating delivering the Telegram six days a week to the words of
Stanley Kunitz ( 1905-2006) , a Worcester native , America’s poet
laureate in 2000; winner of the Pulitzer prize in poetry for his work
“ Selected Poems 1928-1958 “ and winner of the National Book
award for poetry. (I’d say that’s quite an accomplishment for a
three decker kid from Worcester.)
Kunitz was
recognized for his ability of personal reflection in poetical form.
Not necessarily looking back over his shoulder, but sometimes
hovering over searing visions to again, watch and listen. But he
could be nostalgic, even at an early age. In the poem “ Nameless
Men”( 1934) he describes my over the shoulder glance at my life.
He wrote the following:
The years of my
life were odd that now are even.
Think! To be
young, amused and not a fool;
Playing the
world’s game- Think!- with world’s own rules,
And nothing lost,
I think, I think… but years.
Which
brings me
to delivering the Telegram in
Main South Worcester in 1964.
I am 13
years old and it is is
5:15 in the morning.
Delivering the
Telegram on a hot, steamy muggy July morning is the pits alright. And
as you walk towards the newspaper drop spot, you could curse those
darn 7 hills that encircle this industrial city. Those 7 hills sure
reek havoc on a 13 year old newspaper delivery boy because the hills
fracture and disturb the movement of air. I guess if this was a small
town in Iowa where flat terrain abounds, this muggy air would just
pass on by. But not in Worcester. On these sultry mornings those
7 hills kept the muggy air still, unmovable and hovering over the
pulsating city.
The
last place on earth you want to be at 5:15 AM on such a sweltering
morning is walking along Beaver Street in Main South Worcester.
My white ( now soiled with print ink) canvas bag is drooped over my
shoulder with a large red “TG” symbol affixed. I think it
measured 2’ wide by 2’deep and when stretched; 2 feet, too. My
drop off point was at the intersection of Main and Beaver streets.
The truck would zoom
down Main, past Chrystal Park and as the brown truck slowed, a
solitary arm would fling my routes’ bundles of the Telegram into
a store front’s alcove and then proceed onward towards another
Telegram delivery kid’s route . The bundles were wrapped so tight
I had to carry a knife to cut them open.
The bundles
consisted of maybe 30 papers depending on the size of the edition.
For example Thursday’s edition had a zillion food coupons and
grocery store ads. These editions weighed 100 pounds each ( I think)
and if my route’s bundles were stacked upon each other they would
be taller than the Belmont Tower.
With the bundles
loosened, I begin to stuff the the papers into my TG sack. You
always wanted the folded portion to be facing up because it was
easier to grab for delivery, but the bag’s volume dictated that you
had to stuff some papers with fold up and some down.
I had a large route
spread out over many streets mostly populated with three deckers and
the occasional single family house . And on a wet July morning your
biggest concern was the invisible spider webs that drifted across,
down , between and over trees and shrubs and street signs along your
delivery route. Those silky , sticky strands would drape your face,
arms and nose. And as you wiped them away you were worried that a
spider may have been dangling on the tip of the web
lash...and...making its way over your hair and aiming towards your
eye.
Delivering
newspapers in Worcester is not what is depicted in those 1950’s and
1960’s television shows . There is no Buick station wagon with mom
driving Timmy along his route. There are no folded newspapers held by
an elastic band ready for a straight cast out of the car window as
mom slows down . I remember the videos, the freckled faced boy
arching the bundled paper towards the house; it sails between the
manicured hedges and slowly plops onto the front door’s welcome
mat.
“Mom, here’s
Uncle Roger’s house. I hope I can cast the paper onto his porch.
Here I go!”
“ Oh Timmy get
that paper onto Uncle Roger’s porch. Oh you can do it!”
Nonsense . This
doesn’t happen in Main South Worcester. There is no laughter, no
giggling delivering the Telegram on this July morning. Not here, not
in this place and time. Not in main south Worcester. Besides, I don’t
think my mother is even awake.
Single
family houses were easy. With a light edition, the papers could be
folded along two column lengths and with practice, a simple flip onto
the front porch .
Three
Decker buildings which comprised the majority of my paper route ,
posed their own unique constraints to a speedy delivery You always
delivered the papers from the back of the house. You would grab as
many papers as were to deliver, drop the bag on the sidewalk and head
for the rear of the building. Memory tells me I had many third floor
customers. So up the rear stair well you quietly climb. Light days,
with papers folded you could throw the paper up to the third flood
from the second floor landing. But on heavy days you had walk the
entire length of stairs.
Most
three deckers had wide opening in the rear that supported a sitting
area and access to the ubiquitous rear clothes line with its
pentagonal shape. And on a light morning, if the opening was
available you would fold the paper , take a determined stance and
fling the paper skyward . On some mornings you were right on target!
The folded paper sailed up and into the rear openings, even the third
floor! But on some mornings, the paper stalled, I guess lift had
been lost. The inkish rectangle stopped and in a grotesque
unraveling process, the paper would peel apart , sections floating
slowly back to earth. That’s when you had to scamper, retrieve and
re-assemble.
Rain
was not your friend. Snow was not your friend. At the hour of
delivery no sidewalks were plowed, no driveways cleared of snow. You
might as well have been in the Yukon territory. I remember some
mornings my face was so cold and blue-red that I did not get
sensation back to my cheeks until latter that afternoon. I guess only
cool sunny mornings met the agreeable test.
The
Beatles’ 1964 hit, “ Eight days a week.” was written with me
in mind because delivering the Worcester Telegram was an eight day a
week job. You delivered the paper Monday through Saturday (6 days a
week) and collected the subscription fee on Friday evening and
Saturday mornings ( 2 days a week.) . That was an eight day a week
effort according to my calculations.
I had
a small green covered lined accounting ledger that I folded down
the middle so it would fit into my back pocket. This ledger had
multiple columns.
Starting on the left was a wide column where I wrote the customer
name and then a series small columns where I would write weekly dates
usually Saturday dates and when checked-marked signified subscription
payment. Knock on the door, “ I’m here to collect, “ I would
say. Hopefully the customer was home and had the amount available. I
think it was 35cents a week. No one home? I’ll be back.
On
school mornings, the pressure to complete the route, get home,
shower, have breakfast and head to school was enormous. I’m sure
that kid in the Buick wagon completed the route and made school quite
easily. In fact I bet his mom actually drove him to school. I mean
little Timmy walk or take a bus? God forbid.
On
Friday mornings I would stop at a bakery shop on Main street and
buy a dozen donuts. I always bought a sugar coated cruller for my
mom.
A very
important task each week was reconciling your collection activities
with a T&G representative. My collection office was in a building
basement probably fronting Main Street with the door entrance on
Gardner st. Most of your collection money was in quarters and dimes
and some bills. The T&G representative required that all change
was rolled in their designated paper rolls. He also demanded that all
bills had to be face up and in descending order. The face of $ 20
Jackson had better be on top and $10 Hamilton beneath- or else. And
so on; Lincoln then Washington. To this day my pocket currency is
always in descending order… and face up!
But as
I look upon my experiences nostalgically, I am reminded that I
delivered a bunch of headlines over my years. Why in 1964 alone my
Telegram delivered to countless rear stairwells, reported the
decisions and action taken my Mayor Paul Mullaney and City Manager
Francis McGrath. Headlines alerted the reader of passage of the
Civil Rights Act; the Ford Mustang’s unveiling and the first
warning by the US Surgeon General of the dangers of cigarette
smoking. And I’m sure those Obits were eagerly perused as was the
comics and sport’s box scores. Little did I appreciate what the
ink stains on my TG deliver bag truly represented. A critical asset
to an informed public: Information.
Worcester
was and is a complex, vibrant city.. If you delivered the Telegram
in the 1960’s, you have a million experiences to recall. I
certainly do.
END
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