One of the embarrassments I endure has to do with sht-term memory. Mine is very short. Three times in one day, I asked my spouse if she would be home that evening. Each time she reminded me that she had told me of commitment earlier. Blush, blush.
Long term memory is another matter. I suppose it is so with many who are reaching advanced years. (Hardly golden, but ancient.) Yesterday was a case in point. I decidednto get my hair cut at the Barber's. That is unusual, for Beatrix usually buzzes my head at home with our own clippers. I decided to have Andy the Barber trim me up. As soon as I stepped into the Babrber shop, memories began to flood my brain.
I ws back in Chester's Barbershop in Transcona, where we paper boys picked up our load of papers to deliver every day after four o'clock.The back room at Chester's was the Free Press Office. Stacks of newspapaers, boys thumbing through the stack, "one, two, three…seventeen…"Standing in a line waiting my turn, pushing and being pushed, boyish chatter swirling around in my head. I can remember none of their names, save one: Daryll Fierheller. Who could forget such a name? He was small, and red-headed, and the brunt of much teasing and joshing. He was wiry and tough - one of a number of brothers, I think - and he handled himself quite well.
I remembered the load of 70 odd papers that I carried, in winter, slung across my shoulders and back. In summer, mercifully, in the big carrier on the front of my bike. I remember the family of eastern European immigrants, mostly girls. I always hope that the young one would answer the door when I came to collect for the paper. She had a roundish face, just slightly swarthy, and huge, deep eyes, and her name was Grace. I swallowed hard every time I saw her. She never said a word to me, ever. But I have never forgotten her.
There was old Mr. Sowden, the Secretary-Treasurer at the school. He was sour and mean, and frequently put me off payment - "no cash on hand,… come back tomorrow,… or next week." I sometimes had to carry him for a month or more. I often did not get my share of the money until old man Sowden paid up.
The newspapers came out to Transcona from Winnipeg on the Blue Ribbon Bus, our local transport company. We all waited on the corner in front of the bank for the bus to arrive, at around 4:30. There would be pushing and wrestling and paper bag fights. A fight with paper bags was harmless, but a wild thing to see. Paper bags were large canvas bags, the size to hold broadsheet newspapers. It had a flap which could put over the papers to keep rain and snow off them. They were made of sailcloth canvas, heavy and sturdy. A swung paper bag made a satisfying "whop" when it hit something…or someone. Swinging bags looked a bit like a pillow fight, although they created mayhem among passing bank customers!
When the bus arrived, the driver heaved the bundles of papers out onto the sidewalk, sometimes 8 or 10 of them, 80 newspapers each. They were heavy, so you didn't want to be in the when they came flying. However, you did want to be the first to the bundle, because if you lugged it back to the Barbershop, a half-block distant, you got your newspapers first and could be on your way. And that was a prize: first away would be first finished and home. In winter, that was a comfort greatly to be wished for.
I began recalling other customers besides the Grace and old Sowden. There were the people who always complained that I came so late, even if I was first out of the shop. Others were pleasant, and invited me into their hallways while they rummaged for the money they owed me. Some families had dogs that had to be tamed or negotiated if the paper was to be delivered at all. I made friends with more than a few.
I tried to remember at what age in my life all this happened. It had to be when I was twelve, because that was when we moved to the East End (In Transcona, that was a title: the tough part of town.) So I delivered papers from then until I was 15 or 16. Rich years, filled with memories, clear as yesterday's sky. As I write these words, I can hear in my mind the song "Mem'ries" from the movie The Way We Were being sung by Barbra Streisand. So much of life is about "the way we were" in the day. And all this from passing through the door of Andy's Barbershop!
Long term memory is another matter. I suppose it is so with many who are reaching advanced years. (Hardly golden, but ancient.) Yesterday was a case in point. I decidednto get my hair cut at the Barber's. That is unusual, for Beatrix usually buzzes my head at home with our own clippers. I decided to have Andy the Barber trim me up. As soon as I stepped into the Babrber shop, memories began to flood my brain.
I ws back in Chester's Barbershop in Transcona, where we paper boys picked up our load of papers to deliver every day after four o'clock.The back room at Chester's was the Free Press Office. Stacks of newspapaers, boys thumbing through the stack, "one, two, three…seventeen…"Standing in a line waiting my turn, pushing and being pushed, boyish chatter swirling around in my head. I can remember none of their names, save one: Daryll Fierheller. Who could forget such a name? He was small, and red-headed, and the brunt of much teasing and joshing. He was wiry and tough - one of a number of brothers, I think - and he handled himself quite well.
I remembered the load of 70 odd papers that I carried, in winter, slung across my shoulders and back. In summer, mercifully, in the big carrier on the front of my bike. I remember the family of eastern European immigrants, mostly girls. I always hope that the young one would answer the door when I came to collect for the paper. She had a roundish face, just slightly swarthy, and huge, deep eyes, and her name was Grace. I swallowed hard every time I saw her. She never said a word to me, ever. But I have never forgotten her.
There was old Mr. Sowden, the Secretary-Treasurer at the school. He was sour and mean, and frequently put me off payment - "no cash on hand,… come back tomorrow,… or next week." I sometimes had to carry him for a month or more. I often did not get my share of the money until old man Sowden paid up.
The newspapers came out to Transcona from Winnipeg on the Blue Ribbon Bus, our local transport company. We all waited on the corner in front of the bank for the bus to arrive, at around 4:30. There would be pushing and wrestling and paper bag fights. A fight with paper bags was harmless, but a wild thing to see. Paper bags were large canvas bags, the size to hold broadsheet newspapers. It had a flap which could put over the papers to keep rain and snow off them. They were made of sailcloth canvas, heavy and sturdy. A swung paper bag made a satisfying "whop" when it hit something…or someone. Swinging bags looked a bit like a pillow fight, although they created mayhem among passing bank customers!
When the bus arrived, the driver heaved the bundles of papers out onto the sidewalk, sometimes 8 or 10 of them, 80 newspapers each. They were heavy, so you didn't want to be in the when they came flying. However, you did want to be the first to the bundle, because if you lugged it back to the Barbershop, a half-block distant, you got your newspapers first and could be on your way. And that was a prize: first away would be first finished and home. In winter, that was a comfort greatly to be wished for.
I began recalling other customers besides the Grace and old Sowden. There were the people who always complained that I came so late, even if I was first out of the shop. Others were pleasant, and invited me into their hallways while they rummaged for the money they owed me. Some families had dogs that had to be tamed or negotiated if the paper was to be delivered at all. I made friends with more than a few.
I tried to remember at what age in my life all this happened. It had to be when I was twelve, because that was when we moved to the East End (In Transcona, that was a title: the tough part of town.) So I delivered papers from then until I was 15 or 16. Rich years, filled with memories, clear as yesterday's sky. As I write these words, I can hear in my mind the song "Mem'ries" from the movie The Way We Were being sung by Barbra Streisand. So much of life is about "the way we were" in the day. And all this from passing through the door of Andy's Barbershop!
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