My Paper Route

The students are all gone, the halls are dark and empty, next year's hiring is finally complete, and the seemingly endless parade of meetings has ebbed to a just a few scattered throughout the day.

I take a deep breath.

It is finally summer time, and I have begun to reclaim my time from the vagaries of the school year; finally I feel as though I have time to read, time to run, time to myself.

I cherish the time that is mine, for this time - my time - sustains me . . . and it has always been so.

For three years, beginning when I was in 7th grade, I had a morning paper route. Monday though Saturday I rose at 4:30 am, walked down the hill to the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner of Forest Ave. and picked up the first bundle of the 140 editions of the Portland Press Herald that I threw on porches and slid between screen doors.

Depending on the weight of the papers (Thursdays tended to run around 40-46 pages, while Tuesdays could be as low as 28), the route took me about an hour and a half to complete, although weather was a determinant: a big snowstorm, one in which the papers were late or the streets were buried in drifts, could easily add an extra hour and a half.

Although the vast majority of my customers were still sleeping, there were always a handful who were already up anticipating the day's news: old Mrs. Sullivan, who was in her 90's and looked forward more to the coupons than the news, would meet me at the door, always in a dress, and bashfully thank me as she reached out her withered hand for her paper; and Mr. Merrill, in his threadbare Red Sox bathrobe, coffee cup and cigarette in hand, cared for nothing but the sports pages.

In the winter I'd deliver my entire route in the dark, but most of the year I could glimpse the sun rise slow and sure over Back Bay and witness the world stretch and slowly come awake. The spring mornings, after a hard rain, were my favorite; I could sense the fecundity of nature coming to life: the worms wriggling across the warm sidewalks, the faint scent of crocuses, the dogs aching to get outside, and the birds chirping and flitting from tree to tree.

Though it could be a lonely job, walking my route with my orange-strapped bag slung over my shoulder, those mornings were sacred to me. I had a job to do, but I also had time to myself, time when I could be alone with my thoughts, time to reflect.

Although I wouldn't wish struggling through Maine snow banks in the bitter dark on everyone, I do believe that too often we all become so busy with the daily minutia of our lives - shopping for Go-gurt, getting the kids to soccer/piano/dance/riding practice, rotating the tires on the SUV - that we lose sight of the necessity of simply taking some time, taking some time to ourselves, simply taking some time to be.

In these days when our time is sliced and diced into myriad appointments, conference calls, and meetings, I believe that it is important that we take time for ourselves - be that time to exercise, to read, or simply to wake up early in order to witness the sunrise creep over the lake.

For these are the times that sustain us.

--Steve McKibben
7/1/07