Part I Struggle

The Best Times

Run! Running in high-top shoes, too large for his small feet, Jesse's soles slapped the pavement. He'd already tightened the broken laces as best he could for a six-year-old. Run faster! Running through the sizzling afternoon heat, cola sloshing in his tummy, Jesse sprinted down the street slightly ahead of the other boys.

He veered around the corner into the alley, dodged a trash can, scared a feral cat, cleared a crate full of empty bottles, and rushed to the door. Made it. Gasping, the little rascal slipped inside the familiar back room of Duffy's Tavern. He blinked. Adjusting from the bright sunlight, only to peer into thick cigar and cigarette smoke clouding the dim interior, he coughed as he inhaled dense, stale odors. Relaxing his tight clutch on copies of the Wenatchee Daily World, Jesse stepped close to the scarred wooden tables and held out the papers. His presence interrupted the card games.

Turning cards over next to frothy glasses of beer, the players reached into their pockets. The men knew all too well that Jesse's persistence was stronger than their resistance. Actually his innocent grin was irresistible. Best to buy his afternoon papers and send the likeable nuisance off to other taverns. However, pausing to actually read local news wasn't the card players' priority, so they handed him a quarter, some dimes, even a dollar bill and let him keep his stock.

Jesse Montoya's successful start promised another profitable afternoon. His winning strategy depended on reaching the front of a line of little merchants buying the day's edition at the newspaper office. He became adept in purchasing bundles before the other boys. Be fast. Be first. Quick was the minimum speed to guarantee the best sales location. And he thrived on competition, especially with himself to be faster, more profitable.

It was the summer of 1946 in the hot climate of central Washington. Using a dollar of seed money that his father managed for him, the grade-schooler bought a stack of 40 Wenatchee World papers, at two for a nickel. With $1 paid, the independent merchant left in a flash headed for specific places to sell his stock in trade: Duffy's, the Shamrock, the Orondo Tavern and other community recreation rooms. Knowing that if he walked directly into the bar he'd be promptly ordered out, he scooted in back doors and conducted his sales in back rooms with agreeable customers, like today's card players.

Jesse said, "Thank you," and left the men, money jiggling in his pocket. He dashed to another convivial center carrying his stash of the Wenatchee Daily World still intact. Tavern spots and card rooms meant income. So did hotels and high-traffic corners. Some days the scamp grabbed a corner between Mission Street and Wenatchee Avenue and started shouting, "World news!" His yells notified other sellers the corner was occupied. Paperboys recognized the turf as Jesse's, until the next day. Motivated by need not greed, his system worked because he worked.

With three older brothers, Lee, Fred and Joe, all accomplished paperboys, Jesse Montoya captured advantages through his entrepreneurial models. Lee led the way in the early 1940s by managing a morning route and then a second route in the afternoon. Before 6:00 a.m., dark most months, his papers arrived from Spokane, 171 miles to the east. Handling the morning Spokesman Review bundles, and then after school delivering the local Wenatchee Daily World to 150 customers, Lee was a leader for his brothers, and a mentor for the family's littlest salesman.

Jesse's older brother often set the small fry on the handlebars of his big bicycle and sped down the streets to the business center. Jess, though not yet six, immediately wanted to make money and buy a bike. Bouncing on a narrow metal handlebar, balanced high like an auto hood ornament, a bug stopper, he dreamed of owning a bicycle seat and speeding on his own. He joined the Montoya boys' sales team and shortly perfected a winning style.

His balancing prowess expanded. Besides staying on the handlebars, he balanced his playtime with school and work hours. Plus, to sell papers it was crucial to figure correct change. He surged ahead in street-school math lessons, and before long he balanced his finances. He gave funds to the family, then paid the necessary seed dollar, and last Jesse paid his weekly dollar towards his most important goal: a bicycle. He did keep a few coins aside for treats or the movies. A young boy, straddling between childhood and adulthood, Jesse enjoyed carefree play and conscientious work as balance radiated from the core of his existence. Month after month, the school year continued as his newspaper sales expanded. He passed from first grade to second.

"Congratulations! Salesman of the Year"

So on a warm May afternoon, as Jesse rushed into the newspaper office for an additional stack of papers, Mr. Rufus Woods, the publisher of the Wenatchee World, noticed the little hustler.

Mr. Woods asked, "Jesse, how many papers have you sold?"

Beaming with pride, Jesse reported his sales. He was tickled hearing his name, particularly since Mr. Woods was important. Everyone in Wenatchee and throughout central Washington knew the prominent town leader. More than a newspaper publisher, his enterprising, enthusiastic voice was even known well beyond the Washington state line for his crucial work in convincing the government to construct Grand Coulee Dam. And here he was, gently leaning down to personally ask how the boy's nascent business was progressing.

 

To Jesse's surprise Mr. Woods congratulated him, declaring the busy seller the "Salesman of the Year." Such an accomplishment deserved fanfare. Right there, with a natural winning pose, Jesse was photographed. He felt respected with his small fingers resting in Mr. Woods' large hand. The little paperboy joined his hand in the hand of the Northwest region's famous newspaper publisher, civic leader, a forward thinker.

The owner's genial smile spread slightly less than Jesse's wide elfin grin, showing a boy's cheerful countenance, which just couldn't be contained in his slight frame. Even if the worn clothes were tight and the scuffed shoes too big, his impish smile fit perfectly. Bright eyes and a radiating grin lit his freckles. He was aglow with happiness.

His only working clothes tripled as fishing, school and play clothes, but not his one set of clothes for Sunday mass. The single set of durable work garments, aged by fine wear, served the active, successful salesman, who was actually a sales boy.

Suspenders held his pants so he could hold on to the papers as he rushed in and out of taverns or sped along on his bike. Being sensible, he rolled up one pant leg to prevent the trouser from catching in the chain. A nasty spill would damage the bicycle and Jesse cared greatly about his new wheels. Selling papers to pay for his large 18-inch bike was the crucial drive behind the energetic orbits around his world in Wenatchee.

The child's work clothes were particularly noticeable alongside Mr. Woods' properly pressed three-piece business suit. The president of the newspaper company dressed the same as any influential businessman of his generation. And seeing the little ragamuffin, the grandfatherly gentleman must have been reminded of his early years, when he saw small street hawkers selling newspapers in their soiled knickers and newsey cap.

Regardless of their differing attire, Jesse felt like a partner. The company and dozens of paperboys were partners. Distinctly different yet cooperating. The publisher produced the newspaper and boys like Jesse distributed the paper. A working team with a respectful relationship, in which Mr. Woods was the key to Jesse's opportunities.

Closing in on Memorial Day and the end of the school year, his short pants showed growth with wear and tear during months of use. School mates judged his ragtag appearance but he saw himself differently because, "I didn't realize we were poor." With common sense he wasted no time contemplating or complaining about the family's finances. He just contributed to his father's limited funds, often earning $9 a day selling papers. Unrestricted in comfy clothes, his stance reflected the soil of the earth: production. The production, not appearance, mattered. And frankly, he'd be the envy of any little Lord Fauntleroy.

Hand-me-down clothes didn't stunt his growth, but to fill the large, used shoes he needed to grow. With summer activities, he'd likely sprout up stimulated by the sunshine. The month of May already registered several hot days. Such heat required additional ice blocks so he pulled his red Radio Flyer wagon along the streets to the ice storage company and brought back heavy blocks for the family's ice box. He gladly helped his busy mother. Why in a few weeks, school would close and she'd let him spend the whole day outside, on his own, capturing free fun.

Summer: The Best of Times

Like a modern Huck Finn, Jesse and his pals spent warm sunny mornings at the river, on the river, in the river, across the river. But unlike Huck's fictional adventures on the Mississippi, Jesse's real adventures centered on the great Columbia River. The long Columbia started as a smaller winding path out of the rugged, glacier-covered Rocky Mountains of British Columbia. The water gained strength and speed as it rolled over the 1,243 miles to the Pacific Ocean. More than half of the river, 745 miles, flowed through the United States. Wenatchee prospered along the vast moving highway that provided the city and greater region with electricity and irrigation.

Not concerning themselves with the commercial benefit of the Columbia, the lively boys used it as the best playground imaginable. The sounds of water slapping rocks was no match to happy squeals and splashes. Balanced on stilts, made from thin scrap wood, they walked elevated between the wet river rocks to catch crawfish, which provided bait for fishing. When they had their fill of fishin' for salmon and with the sun warming the rocks, the mud, their skin, the gang hurried off to Bare Ass Beach, appropriately labeled.

One designated helper loaded the boys' few summer garments on his bike and rode over the bridge, hopefully not losing socks, shorts or shoes along the way. The rest of the kids soaked in laughter. Their round white bottoms smacked cold water; their short legs kicked and arms stroked as naked bodies swam across the wide sweeping Columbia. The current carried them down stream to where the bicyclist waited.

The nude rascals, their appearances equal, grabbed play clothes, now converted to work clothes and pulled them over bruises, scrapes, and sunburns. With no watches, though they didn't yet tell time on a clock, the boys still knew to split play time with work time. But all the morning activity made them hungry. Together they headed for Mission Street, drying off on their way to Tony's. The boys patronized Tony's as regularly as tavern fellows selected a liquid provider.

Jesse used both hands to hold a large, white bun steamed by a fat, tasty hot dog. His lunch special was piled with spicy chili and fresh onions. The sandwich cost him a quarter. Scurrying away to be the first to reach the newspaper office, he washed off his Coney Island with a cold sweet Coke. Summer's best time, topped with the best lunch, all for 30 cents.

Full of swimming, selling and succeeding, his summer played into autumn. Jesse moved from second grade, on to third grade, outgrowing his one set of clothes by springtime each year. He earned money after school and more on the weekends. For three years he hawked the Wenatchee World. His very best sales days were with the special edition dedicated to The Washington State Apple Blossom Festival, held in the proclaimed Apple Capital of the World.

All of Wenatchee and the surrounding region resonated with the exciting festival, that had started in 1920. For Jesse's first year, 1947, selling the huge paper, his small body with his big spirit drew buyers captivated by his easy smile. People flocked to the downtown streets for the Saturday parade that attracted 75,000. Jesse sold without covering any distance, except for his frequent runs to the newspaper office. The weight of each 144-page festival edition meant he carried only a few copies. Racing for more papers, he kept resupplying his sales spot until the buyers emptied out and his pockets filled up with money. He even tucked dollars inside his shirt. The salesboy more than tripled his usual profitable days, staying busier than the bees.

And bees in the Wenatchee region stayed busy pollinating more blossoms that created larger apple crops, as low flying airplanes crossed acres of productive orchards to spray a synthetic insecticide. Known to be an effective killer against the causes of malaria and yellow fever, the dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane (DDT) reduced insect diseases in agriculture. The apple tonnage increased. The dedicated special edition for the Festival became a best-seller. The spraying airplanes flew and Jesse flew along the streets on his bike. His earnings increased.

Leaving the Street Corner

Jesse's days were tempered by reality in the parameter of his large playground, as he balanced play with work. His experience aided the grade-schooler to take over his brother's route in 1950. Instead of hawking papers, he maintained a steady daily delivery. He learned the customers' names, and they were happy to have another reliable Montoya boy leave the afternoon paper conveniently at their door.

He added one more best to an expanding line of his best times. Whether the headlines were simple or striking, subscribers paid for the daily delivered paper providing Jesse a steady income. It was time to spend some savings, and with small ones waiting he'd sensibly share his used, tight pieces. Holding the money saved over the summer, he and his mother walked into town to J.C. Penney before Labor Day to purchase school clothes. Checking the price, he bought two pairs of dark trousers, ones that actually fit. Now he was decked in a set of togs for church, new ones for school, and some comfy no-worry clothes for his route.

Straddled between the best of childhood days and the additional rewards of adulthood times serving as a salesman, Jesse grew. He no longer contended with a man who asked him, laughing, "Is that bag carrying you?" He handled the canvas bag without the strap shortened, fit into large boots, reached pedals on a big boy's bike, and most of all, grew in wisdom founded on common sense and self confidence taught from his efforts on the streets.

No wonder he was oblivious to people considering him poor. Jesse was rich with a happy supportive family, a strong faith, an abundance of free time with lots of friends, coins in his pocket, and contributions to his family's finances.

Jesse Montoya lived like thousands of children across America. He wanted a bicycle. He earned money selling papers and bought one. Needing clothes, he earned the money to buy the articles. He advanced from hawking to being a paperboy on a regular route with all its advantages: spending money, independence, freedom and fun with friends.

Did all children enjoy Jesse's advantages: an older brother to mentor him and who passed along his route, in a vibrant town where he knew the residents and they knew his family? No.

But then Jesse wasn't competing with the nation's large paperboy population in the 1950s. Learning from his brothers, he transitioned smoothly from hawking papers to running a route, where his ordinary job continued to transform him financially and socially.

For legions of youngsters, the competition to acquire a route and the struggles of settling into a daily routine caused major challenges. Throughout the country, paperboys were impacted by what seems like a simple task: porching papers every day, year round. During interviews of former carriers, the silver-haired seniors readily described how their past experiences affected them. But why raise a stream of questions to hundreds of previous newspaper carriers?

"Where’s that paperboy?"

In the mid-twentieth century, a half million newspaperboys, 500,000 youngsters, ran routes in large and small communities across America. Their numbers increased. By 1980 nearly one million youth delivered papers. This most common first job changed their lives.

Today people refer to the previous century as a simpler time when life was slower and safer. Grandparents, reminiscing over idyllic fleeting decades, envision nostalgic scenes of folks leaving their door unlocked; of walking up town to shop on Main Street, just as Jesse and his mother did. In the evening, long-time neighbors sat at the kitchen table or on the porch swing chatting, rehashing the happenings at high school sports and the church socials.

But a small paperboy scurrying down a dark alley, alone, sending rats scuttling experienced a different affect. Newspaper carriers delivered fast before daylight or at dusk rushing on winter evenings in spite of the snow and ice. Legions of rambunctious children with remarkable fortitude hustled day after day. And a tyke had better "porch" the paper on time because customers clocked his arrival.

Subscribers expected punctual doorstep service as their lives pulsed to daily routines. The school dismissal bell rang at 3:30 p.m., followed by the factory whistle at 4:00. Out by Woods Crossing, the 4:27 Wabash freight train blew a long warning. Before 6:00 mashed potatoes, meat loaf and green beans steamed on the dinner table. Favorite radio shows, Amos ‘n Andy, The Lone Ranger, the Phantom Knows, broadcast on the minute. Church bells called congregations to be prompt for services. Why couldn’t that paperboy obey a rigid schedule?

Well, sometimes he slipped, even without icy snow. A clanging alarm re-routed him to the fire station. A windy March day drew him up hill to fly his homemade kite. A sandlot baseball game, a slide to home base left his papers on the sidelines. Down the street a customer stomped on a porch step fuming, "Where's my paper?"

My older brother, Carl, was one who strayed off schedule. In the middle of the twentieth century, in the middle of Ohio, in the middle of the supper hour, the black dial telephone rang. An irritated voice complained: "The paper’s late! Where's that paperboy?"

Our supper was disrupted, again. Carl, and consequently the family, stayed fettered by his paper route.

Trying to straddle the path from childhood to adult status, this "man of the house" struggled against external conditions and internal confusion. Childhood is complicated. More so when penniless, brother-less and fatherless. Our Father was dead. No tears, fears or hopes alter the absolute state. Hope would not bring Daddy home; he remained in Normandy. Carl remained brother-less. He attacked his penniless condition; the only thing he could change.

Without a dime for a comic book, this energetic, determined imp didn't intend to remain broke. Running a paper route, he figured he'd laugh at the comic strips, like the Katzenjammer Kids and Beetle Bailey, or tremble with Terry and the Pirates. And he'd buy Superman comic books. Eventually, he'd buy a used bike.

So, not yet eleven, barely ten, a skinny child with short legs and unruly hair became a businessman. The business half came quickly; the man evolved slowly. Small hands smeared with printer’s ink, a sturdy, though dirty, canvas bag slung on his slender shoulders, he stumbled along. On his way he acquired more than pocket money and material stuff. He was a mere boy in men’s boots living through a slower life, one supposedly simpler and safer.

Time Passed

Now six decades forward, I tried to tell the grandchildren about my big brother’s experiences: delivering papers in the historic 1950 Buckeye blizzard, his stash of Christmas gifts, hiding comic books under the mattress, earning money to purchase his first car when he outgrew the used bike. Most days he enjoyed too many sweets, too many sodas, and some days encountered a few complaints.

Our grandson, Robert, born a century late for being a paperboy, asked questions, because little ones are filled with questions like a marsh filled with mosquitoes. I tried to answer, yet realized I held neither a broad nor detailed view of Carl’s efforts, or any paper carriers' experiences. Did I know about paper routes because of novels or the movies, with more myth than reality? Was my limited memory accurate? What lay hidden in the boys' actual activities, long concealed by adult assumptions?

The profoundly disturbing element: it was too late to ask Carl.

Catching Robert’s contagious curiosity, and knowing this familiar job for youth has nearly vanished, I engaged friends, family, neighbors: "Were you a paperboy?" Everywhere I was questioning ordinary "silver-haired youngsters" about their former days as newspaper carriers. Oldsters shared sensitive stories, along with their silly acts committed on the route, which entailed more than casually plopping a paper on the porch. Instead of a slower, safer life, their record demonstrated multiple, disturbing experiences. Fast registered as the standard pace, since speed trumped safety.

Breathing in the seniors' spirit, I determined to give carriers their say. They revealed untold truths about communities, newspaper companies, and carriers' circumstances in the unequal trichotomy of two parts adults and one part child.

Their adventures, whether stumbling in severe weather, facing snarling dogs, nonchalantly peering through windows and seeing through sheer lingerie, cashing in at saloons, emphasized an opposing position to the child labor reformers' arguments that paperboys were "exploited." Young carriers gained significant advantages amidst adventures and misadventures, as they explored opportunities. The children matured.

The goal of registering experiences from a paperboy's perspective, required locating seniors with accurate recall. The alert elderly, who were able to discuss details about delivering newspapers in the 1920s, dwindled to a minute number.

Thus 1920 established a good baseline. Besides the limit with older carriers, research demonstrated that the Roaring Twenties ushered in irreversible differences from the dismal, deadly 1910s. The census of 1920 documents a population increase, not surprising from vast numbers of immigrant arrivals. But the major emerging change: for the first time the majority of the population shifted from rural to urban centers (at the time defined as places of 2,500 people or more). Over 59 million lived in locales of fewer than 8,000 residents, a small town with local newsey papers. Just the place for young ones to work paper routes.

The newspaper carrier project also focused on subjects who carried papers through a minimum of four seasons during their most formative years. These curious children, with an innate creative and competitive spirit, committed to a task day after day regardless of external conditions or their gurgling constitution. Immature kids made mistakes, coped with the consequences, acquired confidence seeded in common sense and settled into their first steady job. They grew incredibly resilient.

Neither over-protected or over-praised, and not over-paid, the children managed without being coddled. There was no obesity problem. If they struggled with a weight problem, it was the heavy load on their shoulders, not around their waists. Newspapers and responsibilities weighed them down yet strengthened them physically and psychologically.

For hundreds of thousands of youth, running a route covered a fleeting period in childhood. Still, the year-round job, during development, embedded a significant influence for life. Their formative years were transformed with changes lasting long after the route.

This American icon rests on misconceptions and myths. The advantages to being a paperboy, promoted by newspaper owners, clashed with the vehement claims of the child labor reformers. The opposing adults collided in lengthy controversial arguments, while the carriers enjoyed adventures that outweighed their occasional adversity. Reformers argued that raucous paperboys should be stopped, not simply by state law or municipal regulation but by a constitutional amendment. Proposed in 1924, would such an amendment halt the heathens, whom the proponents considered to be in an embryonic criminal position?

Come. Follow paper routes as carriers swerve through traffic, shiver in subzero temperatures, smell the stale alcohol and smoke in the saloons, spend dimes and save dollars to eventually soar with excitement over their rewards accented with recognition.