Extra, extra!

"Dad, I need a new bike."  I commanded to my father attempting to steal his attention away from the television, his evening reading material and whatever thoughts he was having at the time.  He put the newspaper down, gave me the look and replied, "Steph, what you really need is a job."  

Surely he misunderstood what I was talking about.  My plan had been that I would let my parents know of my deficiencies in my bicycle department, and they would fix my problem by providing the bike to me. Simple enough.  

Unbeknownst to my dad at the time, this conversation was simply a technicality as far as I was concerned.  I had been eyeing my new 10-speed for weeks at the Coast-to-Coast hardware store.  It was bright red with padded handle bars and a portable bike pump clipped to the frame.  Who in their wildest dreams could even imagine that such an accessory was widely available in 1985?  Not this side-ponytail-wearing pre-teen.  This bike was my destiny, and I knew it.  My dad wasn't so sure.  

"Yes, you need to buy the bike yourself and you can start working this week," he insisted.  I wasn't deterred. Knowing that I was too young by a few years for babysitting, I figured my dad had miscalculated my age again and would soon just cut me a check once he double-checked his math.  "I am too young to babysit," I helpfully reminded him.  "Who said anything about babysitting?  You are going to get a paper route."  I paused waiting for my dad to start laughing. He's always had a great sense of humor and I was sure he was pulling my leg.  Three seconds passed...four seconds...five...six, this is weird, I thought, we were now having a staring contest. He didn't crack a smile, but he did circle the HELP WANTED ad for me and then sent me on my way.

While my mom was in agreement that this paper route would be a good exercise in responsibility for me, the idea of her oldest child canvassing the streets alone in the dark to scatter newsprint did not jive with her motherly instincts.  Solution-she would drive me on my paper route every morning.  In retrospect, it sounds like cheating.  But in all seriousness, it was 5 in the morning and it was winter in Nebraska. 

Each morning my alarm clock screamed at me at 4:30 AM. The regional manager whom I 

worked for delivered my bundles of "The Lincoln Star" to my door.  I immediately started the ritual of folding the papers to optimize space in my bag covered in reflective tape.  If it had rained or snowed overnight, I had to bag each paper in a beautiful plastic orange wrapper that would make a 2009 environmentalist cringe.  My hands were covered in smeared black ink and our house smelled like the combination of newspapers and fresh Folger's coffee as my mom prepared for our departure with her first cup in hand.

My mom was a trooper.  She knew the route as well as I did.  We were partners in crime and I look back on those early morning hours with nostalgia now.  I proved to myself and my parents that I could follow-through on a goal and be responsible enough to be trusted with a job.  The best part was I got the bike eventually, it was the sweetest $90 I ever spent.  I test drove the bike around the block to make sure we were meant to be together, and my instincts were correct.  I started humming the tune "Born Free" as I turned the corner back to the store.  It was time to pay.  I counted out a combination of newspaper tip money and allowance.  I basked in the glow of my accomplishment.  Handing that cash over to the owner of the hardware store, it seemed only fitting that some of the bills were smeared with newspaper ink.