End of Childhood
My childhood lasted
until I was eight- years-old, when I landed a job at the Sayre Headlight
Journal working for a marvelous boss W.J. Bacon, owner and publisher.
He held together that little town newspaper with its 10 or so employees
all the eight years I worked there. After he died (many years later),
it never amounted to much again.
I started out delivering papers; I did this for six years, sometimes
with the help of my little sister Phyllis. She covered one side of the
street and I covered the other. For her help she got 10 cents per round
and when we got to the top of Fourth Street, half-way around our route,
I treated her to a five-cent Nesbit Orange Crush at the filling station.
This work was her early introduction to a paying job.
Many an evening I would hang around in the alley behind the newspaper
plant waiting for the paper to come out. The paper was often late. The
press would break, the paper wouldnt feed right, or it wasnt
composed in time because the typesetter or the linotype machine had
a problem. But there was a prevailing motto: The paper always
comes out. Somehow, someway, there was always a paper.