A photo from Christmas past. I am mothering my little sister, with my pink sponge rolled hair tipped down to the camera. The ladies in red pajamas are cousins. My older brother is somehow missing from the scene
When we were growing up we threw newspapers every morning. Christmas morning was especially challenging-to climb out of bed after Santa had come and fold and deliver all the papers, and then put our pajamas back on in order to go in and see what had been left for us under the tree...long ago memories indeed.
But this story did not happen on Christmas morning. It took place a few weeks before. Way back then we had to go to each customer's home and 'collect' their payment for the month. We then handed their money over to the newspaper agency, who handed us back our wage. At Christmas time when we went out "collecting' we often were given a tip for our year's service as the newspaper boy (or girl, in my case). This was the way I remember it most, going to each customer's home on a Saturday morning after breakfast, asking them to write us a check for the month's newspapers. They'd tell us not to throw the paper so loudly, or they'd ask that we leave it in a certain place on the porch, sometimes they didn't say anything but 'thanks' and sometimes they'd tell us they'd paid their bill 'at the office' which meant they'd sent their money into the agency instead of having us collect it.
We always loved collecting at Christmas. Those tips were like a jackpot-a treasure we'd dream of all year. How we'd spend it, what we'd save for, we talked about it endlessly as we folded and threw the papers in the morning hours before the sun was awake, our hands black with newsprint, our eyes still full of sleep.
This year our collection was complete. My brother and I, and I think my little sister, had the tips piled high on the kitchen table. We were literally jingling the change, letting it make a tinkling sound as we swirled it around the kitchen table with our greedy little hands.
Dad entered the room. He looked at the money, and saw the wide whites of our eyes. I remember the radio playing. Christmas tunes on the FM dial, the sound floating from the radio's purch on top of the fridge in the kitchen.
I don't recall how he brought it up, but I do remember a discussion about the money on the table. I'm sure I was telling him what I'd buy for myself with the sweat-earned wages laid out. It was hard work to get up before anyone else I knew. To throw papers even on the weekends, to collect from our customers, and to walk the streets in the mornings alone in the dark and cold (my dad knew how hard this work was, because he did it with us for years. He threw more papers than my brother and I combined and yet never collected a wage for his work. The money that came was used for us to save for missions and college, to buy school clothes and to pay for our own fun and activities. Dad did it so we would have our necesseities and some spare change to boot. A lesson in sacrifice I think of still today).
Dad reminded us of a story we'd read during the Christmas season about a $50 gold piece that was given to someone less fortunate with only the stipulation that he pass it along to another if he found one in more dire straights than his own. As you may guess-the story winds on as each recipient sees that another's need is greater than his or her own-and the lessons in the end you can imagine.
We heard our dad that day in a way that I will not forget. Our hearts were touched. We looked at our pile. We realized there were others who needed more than we.
Then an add came on the radio. It was for "Coats for Christmas" a fundraiser which purchased coats for needy children in our city. The light came into our eyes. The excitement of the sacrifice began.
The rest of my memory is fuzzy, accept that I know there was a deadline of sorts-donations needed to be made by that very day, and only certain places in the city could take our hard earned money. I recall a little drama as we piled in the car, my dad at the wheel and the dollars and change in our pockets. A Speedy drive to down town Salt Lake and some kind of post office looking mail box where we dropped our money to be donated.
I remember the clinking of the change as it was poured into the belly of the box.
The task complete, we turned to walk back to the car. It was cold outside, I could see my breath. But I felt warm and happy. And satisfied with the knowledge that a child somewhere would have a coat for Christmas even though I would not have whatever it was I had hoped to use my money to buy....
not a wonder I don't remember what I would have purchased with my tips. Not a wonder that I do remember the feelings I had that Christmas.
But this story did not happen on Christmas morning. It took place a few weeks before. Way back then we had to go to each customer's home and 'collect' their payment for the month. We then handed their money over to the newspaper agency, who handed us back our wage. At Christmas time when we went out "collecting' we often were given a tip for our year's service as the newspaper boy (or girl, in my case). This was the way I remember it most, going to each customer's home on a Saturday morning after breakfast, asking them to write us a check for the month's newspapers. They'd tell us not to throw the paper so loudly, or they'd ask that we leave it in a certain place on the porch, sometimes they didn't say anything but 'thanks' and sometimes they'd tell us they'd paid their bill 'at the office' which meant they'd sent their money into the agency instead of having us collect it.
We always loved collecting at Christmas. Those tips were like a jackpot-a treasure we'd dream of all year. How we'd spend it, what we'd save for, we talked about it endlessly as we folded and threw the papers in the morning hours before the sun was awake, our hands black with newsprint, our eyes still full of sleep.
This year our collection was complete. My brother and I, and I think my little sister, had the tips piled high on the kitchen table. We were literally jingling the change, letting it make a tinkling sound as we swirled it around the kitchen table with our greedy little hands.
Dad entered the room. He looked at the money, and saw the wide whites of our eyes. I remember the radio playing. Christmas tunes on the FM dial, the sound floating from the radio's purch on top of the fridge in the kitchen.
I don't recall how he brought it up, but I do remember a discussion about the money on the table. I'm sure I was telling him what I'd buy for myself with the sweat-earned wages laid out. It was hard work to get up before anyone else I knew. To throw papers even on the weekends, to collect from our customers, and to walk the streets in the mornings alone in the dark and cold (my dad knew how hard this work was, because he did it with us for years. He threw more papers than my brother and I combined and yet never collected a wage for his work. The money that came was used for us to save for missions and college, to buy school clothes and to pay for our own fun and activities. Dad did it so we would have our necesseities and some spare change to boot. A lesson in sacrifice I think of still today).
Dad reminded us of a story we'd read during the Christmas season about a $50 gold piece that was given to someone less fortunate with only the stipulation that he pass it along to another if he found one in more dire straights than his own. As you may guess-the story winds on as each recipient sees that another's need is greater than his or her own-and the lessons in the end you can imagine.
We heard our dad that day in a way that I will not forget. Our hearts were touched. We looked at our pile. We realized there were others who needed more than we.
Then an add came on the radio. It was for "Coats for Christmas" a fundraiser which purchased coats for needy children in our city. The light came into our eyes. The excitement of the sacrifice began.
The rest of my memory is fuzzy, accept that I know there was a deadline of sorts-donations needed to be made by that very day, and only certain places in the city could take our hard earned money. I recall a little drama as we piled in the car, my dad at the wheel and the dollars and change in our pockets. A Speedy drive to down town Salt Lake and some kind of post office looking mail box where we dropped our money to be donated.
I remember the clinking of the change as it was poured into the belly of the box.
The task complete, we turned to walk back to the car. It was cold outside, I could see my breath. But I felt warm and happy. And satisfied with the knowledge that a child somewhere would have a coat for Christmas even though I would not have whatever it was I had hoped to use my money to buy....
not a wonder I don't remember what I would have purchased with my tips. Not a wonder that I do remember the feelings I had that Christmas.
1 comment:
Thanks so much for sharing this Katie!! What a great Memory!
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