I grew up in the Virginia section of Rumford, Maine, the oldest of six children born to united and loving parents. Dad worked for the New England Telephone Company while Mom held down the fort at 528 Virgin St. At age twelve, despite my frantic effort to memorize the eye chart before my turn in line, the dreaded school eye exam revealed I needed glasses. Contact lenses were just coming en vogue and I wanted them more than life itself. Assured I could easily convince my parents to climb aboard the “contact lens train,” I approached them much like Oliver Twist asking for more. A pair of contact lenses in those days cost over $150 &8212; that sounded reasonable to a twelve-year-old girl, but not so much to my parents who suggested I get a job. With their direction and support, I soon had my first job as a paper carrier for The Lewiston Daily Sun.
Six days a week at 5:20 am, an old wind up alarm clock on my bed stand jolted me from a sound and peaceful sleep to deliver papers to 56 customers in our neighborhood. In the early morning light — or in the pitch dark — I slipped out the back door while my parents and siblings slept. Equipped with a heavy satchel slung across my body and towing a rickety rolling metal cart containing papers, I was $150 away from contact lenses. I was livin” the dream!
I had no exposure to country music until I started my paper route, and WRUM was the only radio station in our area with block programming of country music until 7:00 am. Scattered streetlights lit the neighborhood as I made my way to The Busy Bee store where, on the worn porch, the papers — neatly stacked and bound — awaited their delivering. With a few snips from my scissors, I prepared for my route by carefully filling my satchel and cart. Many of my customers worked at the Oxford Paper Company mill and it was important that their paper arrive promptly for them to read before their early morning shift.
The first delivery was my Uncle Warren’s house. Everything about this house was inviting to me. One morning I climbed the stairs, opened the screen door and could smell the comforting aroma of coffee, eggs, and bacon as I pushed the paper through the generously sized mail slot. Then I heard a voice, a sound I had never experienced — a frantic begging female singing something about Jolene. I shrugged my shoulders and moved on to the next house. That song was still playing at the next house, the next house, and three minutes later ended at the house after that. A verse, the chorus, a verse, the chorus. Other mornings “One’s on the Way” or “Delta Dawn.” Many of my customers listened to WRUM.
The other half of the paper route was the Thursday after school collection day and the only time I saw my customers face to face. The mill workers were now home and WRUM’s format was pop music. Pop songs played from house to house as I made my way along the route — “Half Breed,” “You”re So Vain,” “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree” are some I clearly remember.
Months later, Christmastime! I set out on a cold and snowy Thursday afternoon to collect — it was as dark as it was ten hours before when I delivered their papers. Customers handed me crisp white sealed envelopes with my name and said, “Thank you and Merry Christmas.” When I got home, I bolted up the stairs to my bedroom, sat on my bed surrounded by fuscia pink and lime green walls dotted with flower power decals. I was madly in love with John Denver so listened to his dreamy voice on my record player while I opened the envelopes. Several thoughtful and lovely cards later, I had enough money for contact lenses — $200! I was rich!!
My Mom brought me back to the optometrist who fitted me with my first pair of contact lenses. I was so happy and proud! Knowing my parents would not spring for my next dream, a radio, I pondered my options. Fate held the answer. A classmate who had the other half of the paper route in the neighborhood wanted out. I took on another fifty customers. My Dad quickly realized this had to be a team effort. Five days a week before he worked a full day, my Dad would awaken before me and go to the Busy Bee to separate our papers. Off into the rising sun, pitch dark, pouring rain, or falling snow we would go — he in one direction, I in the other. Six mornings a week Dolly Parton, Charlie Rich, John Denver, and Marie Osmond to name a few, kept me company.
One morning later that winter with sleet, wind, and cold striking hard against my face and body, I slipped and slid my way in the dark to the Busy Bee. Miraculously I made it up the first icy hill without problem. As I delivered the paper to the first customer at the bottom of the second hill, “Paper Roses” was playing from behind their warm and safe door. God how I wanted to get warm! I continued up the hill crawling on my hands and knees desperately looking for traction and focusing on the next house at the top of the hill. My satchel dragged on the ground under my belly while I clinched the metal cart handle full of heavy papers, my fingers so frozen I could not feel them. I reached the top of the hill and the next customer’s walkway, only to slide completely back down the hill. After the third try, I made it to that house but Paper Roses was no longer playing — an indication that this was going to be a very tough morning and the only morning I did not hear a song from start to finish. I earned extra tips that week from customers at the top of the hill who had watched each failure and then the successful summit.
Every Saturday with a bit of collecting money in hand, my best friend, Gail and I would walk down Falls Hill to Larry’s where I would buy a Caramello chocolate bar and a record from an artist I had heard on the paper route that week. Gail would buy a Teen Beat magazine. Back up Falls Hill we would go to her house where we listened to music, read the magazine, and shared Caramello chocolate.
Through the next year or so, I was able to make enough money for many things including a new radio and a legitimate electric alarm clock. I’ll forever be grateful to my parents for teaching me — at a very young age — responsibility and commitment. Our Dad died suddenly when I was seventeen and to this day, I treasure those quiet post paper delivery mornings in our kitchen where not much, but so much, was said. I recently took my husband on a drive through the neighborhood and my paper route. We both were surprised at the terrain. I had forgotten how steep those hills are. Collectively, we looked at each other and wondered — who would ever allow a twelve-year-old girl to do this? Times, were different.
From my uncle’s house where I first heard “Jolene” to others along the way, flashbacks of “Behind Closed Doors,” “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World,” and especially “Rocky Mountain High” still resurrect such strong emotions. Regardless, with every change of season, the scents, sounds, and light provided so graciously by Mother Nature can instantaneously drop me back to my paper route where all I wanted was a pair of contact lenses but instead received the timeless gift of music.